True Lives in Tracklisted Order
by MarkDavidChapman
Summary: This is the story of the Killjoys, told through their music. Each chapter corresponds to a song on the album Danger Days. It's a small part AU, a little bit of a shipping, and all of it is full of rock and roll. Oh, and credit for the title pic goes to darkdissolution over on deviantart. Disclaimer: none of the quotes, songs, or characters from the album are mine, only the OCs.
1. Singles

Singles

_The Fabulous Killjoys_

"These pigs are after me, after you…" ~My Chemical Romance, "Bulletproof Heart"

You run.

The hot wind burns in your lungs, the sand bites your ankles, your mother's last words ring painfully in your ears: "Whatever happens, Grace, I will always love you. Now go!"

Fears flow through your mind and push you onward, until you can hardly breathe, can hardly stand. Gasping and sweating and crying and possibly bleeding, you stumble into the four men who will save your life. You're not supposed to talk to strangers, but you don't have to. They rescue you from what's after you, shooting down the terrors and stopping the chase.

You'll have to keep running soon, but for now you curl up in the sunshine in their car and sleep.

After a while, you wake up to your new home, new life, and these new people who will be your friends. They introduce themselves, and for a time the world isn't quite so bad.

You settle into their names and voices and beings, and soon are one of them. You talk and shoot and travel with them. You get to play hopscotch with rainbow-colored spray paint, eat breakfast on a highway, listen to loud music, and ask them anything that crosses your mind. They help you become yourself.

You add color to your mother's grave, and sit back, filled with their love and your joy. You know that with these friends of yours, you'd keep running forever.

_Fun Ghoul_

"Beautiful tats, all over my back…" ~Weird Al Yankovic, "Another Tattoo"

He teases you about it, but you like to look at his tattoos. How they unfold, one into the next, stars and barbed wire and faces of people you don't know. Every time you check, there seems to be an image you haven't seen, a new mystery, written in ink and skin, waiting to be uncovered.

"How'd you get so awesome?" you ask him one day while rereading the letters on his fingers. You're not just being nice, either; you have a running list of reasons why he's cool, none of which really help you figure out why you've always thought so. It includes his tattoos, of course, and his guitar skills, his sense of humor (Party said once that he acted like a kid, and you don't see why he said it like it was _bad_), and his battle skills, especially how he's passing those on to you, teaching you how to use lasers and knives and your favorite- his old pistol. But you want to hear the real answer from him.

"Well, I always eat my vegetables and look both ways before I cross the street…" he says, in a pretending-to-be-serious voice.

You giggle. "Seriously, though, how?" You look up at him in determination, letting him know that you won't stop bothering him until he tells you what is, right now, the best secret ever.

"Uh, I guess I just…do what I want?" he offers, before adding with more sureness, "Yeah. It's really a matter of being yourself and not letting other people tell you who to be or what to do." Little does he know that this statement will soon result in three days where you refuse to eat your eggs, because first, you don't like them, and second, you're being yourself, and yourself really doesn't like eggs, okay?

"Oh," you reply, committing this information to memory before getting distracted by a tiny, complex spider web on his hand. "Did those hurt?" You already know that the designs are imbedded in his skin, but you're still always surprised by how they never come off when he washes his hands.

"Kind of, yeah. I had to get jabbed by a needle a whole lot, but it's something you get used to. Now it almost tickles…like this!" He starts poking you in the armpit, and you try to squirm out of his reach, poking him back at the same time while both of you laugh.

You realize later, after he takes a laser blast in the neck to save you, that the reason he's cool is hard to put into words- written on his hands or not- and that his tattoos have nothing and everything to do with what makes him awesome.

_Jet Star_

"My parents were always telling me that practice makes perfect, but then I learned that nobody's perfect, so I stopped practicing." ~Anonymous

"I can't do it!" you sigh, frustration snapping through you as your fingers stumble yet again over the keys, hitting another sour note. You look at him, feeling bad that you're not as good at music as he is. "Sorry." The word comes out in the same tone as the messed-up chord, simple and sad and full of self-conscious failure.

He lifts his eyes from his guitar and surveys you gently, not a trace of irritation in his expression. "It's all right."

You sigh again, mad at yourself. Why can't you just play the stupid chord progression? "I-I just…This is really- " Several different words flash through your mind and clutter up your throat so that nothing comes out at all. Instead, you glare at the piano, expressing with narrowed, watering eyes more than can be said in words.

"Hey," he says from right next to you, shifting his guitar so that it's slung across his back and out of his way. Lowering himself onto the bench, he puts one arm around your shoulders while you wipe your eyes. "You're not that bad. Better than me at piano, actually."

He smiles, trying to get you to do the same, but you just shake your head. "That doesn't help."

"Okay," he replies evenly. "Then here's what you do, and I know you've heard this before and you'll have to hear it again, but: practice. That's all you can do. Heck, if everybody could do this easily, we'd all be rock stars."

"But you _are_ a rock star," you point out; it's easy for him to tell you all that stuff when he can play super-fast without even looking!

He grins and says, "How do you think I became one? I had to practice for hours and hours every week, and I had to mess up a lot, too. Here, I'll help you."

He reaches out with one hand and starts to play part of the piece, so slowly you wonder if he has patience in his veins instead of blood. You can count what feels like a half hour between each note, but you pick up his lead anyway and play along, one-handed, trying to match his pace.

You find out quickly that it's really hard to play at this decreased speed. In the spaces between the chords, you can feel your mind wander ahead to the next bar, and you seem to make _more_ mistakes at first. With a lot of focus, you manage to slow down your mind to the point where your thoughts are funneled in anticipation of the next finger position, and only the very next one. Pretty soon, you're playing right along with him.

Just when you think that you could try it by yourself, he lifts his hand from the keys and his other arm from your shoulder. You add in the left-hand notes, and carefully hit each one with perfect timing (okay, not _perfect_, but close enough) while he watches contentedly.

When you get to the one part you can't do, you have to work to silence the voice in the back of your head going, "Uh-oh, you're gonna mess it up again!" Telling it to shut up distracts you, and you almost lose the rhythm, but have enough time in the pauses between beats to remember what you're doing. You play that chord, and the next one, and the one after that, all the way to the end of the piece, with _almost _no slip-ups.

When you're done, and your mind returns to normal speed, he claps for you and tells you how good you did. You figure that you'll believe that when you can play the piece without nearly stopping time itself, but you still feel pretty great when he calls you his "'fro pal" and gives you a fist bump before settling down on his stool.

You feel even better and more excited when he slides his Gibson back around and cradles it on his leg, saying, "Okay, now let's try it with guitar."

_Party Poison_

"Life's disappointments are harder to take when you don't know any swear words." ~Bill Watterson

"Aw, shit!" he exclaims, watching the coffee spill from the cup and sink into the sand where he dropped it.

You stare at him curiously as you wonder what that word means. You've heard all the Killjoys utter it before at various times- Jet Star's cool, 'cause he says it with an accent, like "shiyt"- but you've never asked why they do, because you're pretty sure it's one of those bad words your mother told you not to say.

That doesn't stop you from listening to it, however. Your friends aren't shy about using such words, and Party Poison in particular says the s- and f-words quite often. You adjust to it, along with all the other aspects of your friends, and even find yourself almost liking it. It's kinda funny how Party delivers, with the occasional totally calm face, these sharp, four-letter messages of annoyance, or if he's feeling especially eloquent, remarks like "motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!" Sometimes they seem like just things he says for no real reason, when he has nothing else to say.

You snap out of your thoughts and keep walking after him, slinging your grocery bag higher up on your shoulder. Suddenly, so fast all you can do is freeze in shock, a Draculoid charges out from behind a small sand dune and tackles him to the ground. The two wrestle for a few seconds, Party trying to untangle his hand from the plastic bag he's holding so he can get to his gun, but it ends when the Drac punches him in the face and pins his free hand to the asphalt. The Drac pulls out his own gun and presses it to Party's chin and, when your friend's eyes widen in fear, sneers, "Bet you don't like emotions now, huh, stupid Killjoy? How's it _feel_ knowing that you're about to get killed in front of your little girl?"

Before Party can reply, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You run forward and scream at the top of your lungs, "GET OFF HIM, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" At the same time as the Drac looks up in both surprise and offense (you're positive that no one from BLI uses language like that), you hit him over the head with your bag of groceries, most of which are cans.

Party quickly flips the Drac over and rolls on top of him, ripping his enemy's gun out of his hand and pressing it to the side of the Drac's creepy mask. Now it's your friend's turn to mock his opponent, and he spits, in response to the Drac's previous question, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

One flash of white light later, Party Poison is climbing off the dead Drac, picking up his bag and sticking the enemy's gun into it for safekeeping. He grins at you. "Nice save."

The two of you resume the walk home, where he'll tell the rest of your friends about this adventure and you'll find out that you actually managed to conjugate that swear word properly.

_Kobra Kid_

"While crying helplessly into my pillow for no good reason, I would often fantasize that maybe someday I could be one of those stoic badasses whose emotions are mostly comprised of rock music and not being afraid of things." ~Allie Brosh, _Hyperbole and a Half_

You'd never thought that Kobra Kid, who always seems rather reserved, would be so talkative when it comes to an issue you barely know exists.

You are out on a raid with him, which makes you feel special because you know that he likes to go solo a lot of the time. But for this one, he needs you, being the smallest and hardest to notice, to crawl into the back of a Drac supply truck while they take a lunch break (those that stay behind to guard end up on a "permanent lunch break" according to your friend, who has the lasers) to steal a box of medication. You are able to squeeze through the hole he blasts in the back of the truck and, after a few minutes' digging around in the dim light and trying to remember how to spell "lithium," you reemerge with the goods. Kobra thanks you, even though you had practically begged him to let you go on this mission, and he takes you to the gas station on the way back, to get some lunch of your own.

As the two of you sit in the car, munching on sandwiches, you can't help but wonder why this mission was necessary in the first place. You've never been really great at guiding a conversation over to a certain topic, and neither is Kobra, so you're pretty sure he forgives you for asking abruptly through a mouthful of lettuce, "What's the medicine for?"

He glances at you, swallows his bite of sandwich, and says casually but a bit uncomfortably, "It's for me, of course."

"What's wrong with you? Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

He takes a sip of juice and stares at you in disbelief before asking, "The other Killjoys didn't tell you?" He sighs when you shake your head and keep looking at him in worry, as if he could drop dead any second.

"Well, Grace, it's 'cause I'm sick."

"Oh," This doesn't do much to comfort you, but you figure that if he goes to such great lengths to get this medicine- that's what all these raids are for, you realize- it must be working.

"But it's not sick like a stomachache," Kobra continues, even though you've already accepted the whole idea and don't need to talk about it any more. "It's like…sick in the head."

"Like crazy?" You regret the words as soon as you say them, not just because it makes your friend cross his arms in irritation, but because you don't want to think that he could be like…that. Whatever _that_ is; you've never really thought about insanity, but you do know that it scares you. You don't want your friend to go through it.

"No," He replies finally, and you can tell from his voice that he's trying to be calm. "I'm not crazy. It's more…" He finishes his juice and asks, "You know how you feel when you miss your mom a lot?"

You frown, as memories of sleepless nights spent curled up next to one of your friends while sobbing inconsolably rush into your mind. "Yeah."

"I get sad like that sometimes." You want to give him a hug or something to make him feel better, because he looks more alone and vulnerable than you've ever seen him, but he doesn't really like hugs, and then he continues, "Only I really have no reason to be sad. It's just how my brain works. But the meds make me feel better."

You have a sudden, horrible insight. From what you've been told, that's exactly why the Dracs have set up the world the way they did: so they could make and use things, mostly pills, that make them feel better.

He notices your agitation, and looks quickly into your widening eyes, saying, "Don't worry; I'm not a Drac." He tries to chuckle. "I do have other things to get me through the day, you know. That's kind of why I have friends: you guys can help me with my problems and give me, like, a place to belong. Without you, I might have become a Drac. But with your support…heck, I could survive without meds. They just make things a little easier."

"So you're okay?" You ask, to make totally sure.

He nods, gives you a rare smile, and reaches over to hug you. You snuggle into his shoulder, content that he seems alright. If you can trust him- and when haven't you been able to?- you know that, despite whatever complicated, scary thing is wrong with him, he is definitely okay.

You'd never thought that Kobra Kid, your quiet, often apathetic friend, would be so open, or that you and he would get involved in a discussion about mental illness over sandwiches.

_The Girl_

"I got a bulletproof heart; you got a hollow point smile." ~My Chemical Romance, "Bulletproof Heart"

They know they're being hopelessly idealistic, but she's just so darn cute.

When she came up to them on the road five years ago, looking more lost, pathetic, and terribly _sad_ than they'd seen anyone look, they couldn't just ignore her. So they took her in.

She's been a liability more than once, of course: having a little kid tagging along with them when everyday things like going to the store are incredibly hazardous is bound to cause problems, and Korse is well aware of their affection for her, often going so far as to make her the main target of his attacks. But even he will never harm her.

She's the most important thing either side can have: a young, innocent person that they can raise and train however they wish, educating her by their values. She's one of the few free minds left in this world, filled with an obsession for rainbow-ponies rather than doctrines.

For all that value, though, there's another reason the Killjoys guard her with their lives- they love her.

She's the sometimes-obnoxious little sister that Fun Ghoul never had, the daughter Party Poison lost. She's Jet Star's muse and moral compass, and the most essential one-eighth of Kobra Kid's reasons to get up in the morning.

And that emotion is the most dangerous, worthwhile thing of all.


	2. Track 1

"'Good morning' is an oxymoron." ~Anonymous

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" My eyes snapped open unwillingly as Show Pony barged into the tiny back room where I had been sleeping and bounced on the end of the mattress.

I groaned. "What do you want?" Couldn't he see I was trying to make up for the utter lack of sleep I'd suffered for the past several days?

"I want you to go debut that new album, that's what!" He jumped off the bed and ran eagerly to the doorway. "Come on! Come on come on come on! Let's go!" He left, and I took a few seconds to contemplate how we had ended up as friends (he'd been the only person around willing to help an old, run-down war vet like me start the most successful radio station in Zone 5) before sitting up with a sigh. It looked like I'd be running on six hours' sleep and a ton of stale coffee, again.

After getting dressed and trying unsuccessfully to make my breath smell slightly less awful, I made my way into the kitchen area and snagged some of the coffee that Show Pony had brewed. As I settled onto one of the bar stools, I heard a voice behind me say, "Ready for the big day, Dr. Death?"

I whirled, pulled out my laser, and brandished my cane in the direction of the sound. Not a bad choice of weapons, really: a few feet of solid oak in the right place could break the bones of my opponent, who was-

Actually on my side. Right. I'd forgotten, thanks to the fog in my head, that the woman staring at me in surprise from the nearest booth had agreed to help with today's broadcast, offering her badass technical expertise. I'd turned down her first offer to co-host because I felt a weird need to host the album's introduction by myself. I knew by now that it was a good idea to trust it when I got feelings like that, and she had grudgingly agreed.

She raised her hands in a sarcastic gesture of surrender marred by the touch of fright in her voice. "Okay, okay. I get it. Don't talk to you till you've had your coffee. Geez."

I lowered my weapons and took a sip of my drink. "Sorry. You startled me."

"I can see that."

"Hey, guys," Fun Ghoul sat up in the next booth down, rubbing his eyes. He appeared to have slept in his usual outfit, a combo of yellow and black that made him look stupidly like a bumblebee. "Er, guys and girl," he amended.

"What?" asked our ten-year-old companion, who was very originally called The Girl, as she walked in the double doors of the main entrance. Party Poison, whose eyes were ringed with the same shade of red as his hair because they'd just gone to mail something, followed her protectively.

"Not you," Fun Ghoul started to explain, but then just said, "Never mind." He picked up his green military vest, the source of all his bomb-making materials and battle gear, from the opposite booth and put it on.

"So," Party Poison's voice was flat and tired. "Today's the album debut thing, right?" He was our unofficial leader, but never seemed too happy about that. Not that I blamed him- being in charge of us was like having several kids, not counting the actual kid. And dealing with the death of his totally badass, short-tempered but likeable brother didn't make him feel too great, either.

"It sure is! It's gonna be totally shiny!" Show Pony exclaimed, holding up a record that he'd found on my desk.

"How many times must I tell you to not touch my stuff?" I snapped in pretend anger. That joking complaint was older than the phonograph Show Pony was attempting to figure out, but he gave a halfhearted chuckle anyway. I thought I'd better keep him from breaking something, so I went over and took the record and put it in the right way. Show Pony sighed melodramatically, grumbled something about how I was pushy, and went to get coffee- like he needed _more_ energy.

I rolled my eyes and sat down at my desk. "Okay, so," The caffeine had yet to take effect in my brain, and I tried to think of a way to begin. "Let's get this not-a-party thing started."

"Yay!" the Girl chirped, and took a seat in the closest chair. She had to move a second later because the other female Killjoy was supposed to sit there, but she stared over the top of the booth with wide eyes like she was expecting a miracle. Show Pony returned, mug in hand, and sat next to her, looking at my "tech support" and I with similar enthusiasm.

Fun Ghoul and Party Poison sat across from them. Party looked a little nervous as the woman searched for a clear channel and I adjusted various volume settings, like he was afraid the beat-up speakers would explode. Fun Ghoul, however, was staring at me with a knowing little smile, almost wistfully. It occurred to me that Jet Star had always looked strangely content like that when he played guitar. He'd said that composing and playing music gave him a feeling of complete freedom and peace, as if he was fulfilling his intended purpose.

(Jet Star had been the type of guy who, if you gave him a million bucks, would thank you and donate it to charity. All of it. And if you hit him in the face and stole it back, he'd thank you again, saying that the love of money was the root of all evil, before he apologized for implying that you were evil, and thanked you some more while he went to ice his eye. Dammit, we needed that kind of guy.)

I wasn't sure about my life's purpose, but I did know that being a DJ was probably the second most kick-ass thing I had done in my forty-one years- after being a rock star, obviously. As much as I hated those old clichés, radio gave me a chance to express myself and get my voice heard. Being on the air was my way of staying in touch with the world. And everyone said I had the face for it.

"Ah, here we go," the woman beside me said, snapping me out of my oddly philosophical thoughts- I wasn't normally so deep this early in the morning. She'd found a clear channel, and grinned at me. "Ready?"

I resisted the urge to say _born ready_, and went with a casual nod instead. She flicked the power switch on the mic and waited for me to begin. The static buzzed intermittently, like a confused, unmotivated swarm of bees. I took a deep breath, leaned forward, and in a whisper I said the words that would begin, not only the album all of us, living and dead, had worked so hard on, but what it meant: a second chance, a memory of a time when everyone had a say in things, and the story of the true lives of the fabulous Killjoys.

"Look alive, sunshine…"


	3. B-Side: War Stories

"Mama, we all go to Hell." ~My Chemical Romance, "Mama"

Tsow! Tsow!

As white-hot flashes of laser fire streaked over the broken concrete ledge that had once been a wall, Steve crouched in the dust and clutched his gun. He was muttering a song under his breath to take his mind off the fear and adrenaline that made his knees shake and his mind cloud over.

Joey, their squad leader, ducked back down after throwing a grenade over their makeshift shield and panted, "Think we should run for it?"

Steve considered the situation briefly: they were outmanned, outgunned, and the soldiers they had were nearly all complete amateurs and, more often than not, complete morons as well. He was fairly sure that no one would blame them if they retreated when faced with such a risky situation.

"Yeah, we probably should." Steve replied, feeling relieved because Joey always took his advice.

And sure enough, the squad leader nodded and called to the fifteen or so guys huddled with him that they were retreating. All the men looked equally relieved, and even more so when, after lobbing one more grenade to repress enemy fire, Joey turned and started running, crouched down, in the direction of the Humvees. Steve joined the group of rushing soldiers, eager to escape from what had been, like every other battle he'd fought in his two months at war, the scariest thing he'd experienced in his life.

There had been a lot of talk, when he had signed up and gone to boot camp, of bravery and valor, honor and nerve and all those good and righteous qualities that military service would instill in them. While the drill sergeants' fervent patriotism was admirable, Steve had quickly learned that, no matter how much training they were put through, no amount of bravery or righteous ideals, army-induced or otherwise, could make anyone feel better or stronger when they were dodging deadly laser blasts in the middle of a battlefield. Nothing could prepare you for the terror, the uncertainty, the only comfort being the sound of the footsteps of the men behind you and knowing that at least they hadn't been shot yet.

Nothing, he would think later with a rueful smile, could prepare you for life after both your friends and your leg were blown up by a landmine.

Steve drifted slowly into consciousness, his thoughts washing onto his mind like wreckage onto a beach. He groaned internally and tried to sink back into sleep; it was probably early morning, which meant that he had very little time left to get any rest before Pete, whose bunk was directly across from his, did as he did every morning and threw his pillow at Steve's head while beseeching him to "get the hell up, put on some pants, and get your lazy butt down to the chow hall so we don't miss breakfast!"

Steve took a deep breath, anticipating the shock, waiting for that annoying bastard (who was now one of Steve's best friends) to chuck his pillow at him. _Bring it, man_. He waited, but the blow didn't come. He heard a clock ticking obnoxiously loudly, shattering the predawn silence with its steady, sharp beats.

There were no analog clocks, and certainly not ones as intrusive as this, in the barracks.

As Steve's face contracted in gross, morning-breath scented confusion, his mind noted another rhythmic annoyance: a high-pitched beeping, which felt the need to announce its ability to make high-pitched beeps about once every two seconds, from what seemed like right next to his ear.

_What the hell is going on?_ Steve thought. He was dimly aware of some memories struggling at the corner of his mind, trying to break through the murky fog, but he would deal with those later; right now, he had a potentially manageable problem before him, something he could solve with little to no mental exertion, and that was the itch in his leg.

He reached down automatically to scratch it, but his mind encountered momentary puzzlement as his hand encountered- nothing. Frowning, he felt around beneath the sheets, figuring that maybe he'd slept on it wrong, and his leg had gone numb. But that couldn't be it; he couldn't feel anything with his hand either. _What?_

He didn't much care to ponder the mysteries of the situation now, though; he still needed to sleep, and so he started to bring his hand back up, to plug his ear and block out that stupid beeping. But he stopped as his fingers brushed against his thigh.

It didn't feel like his at all. It was oddly sticky, as though he'd spilled something on it that had then dried, and there was a strangely textured cloth wrapped tightly around it, much more loosely woven and smooth than the shorts he wore to bed. Of more immediate importance, however, was the fact that both the fabric and his leg came to an end at about mid-thigh.

Steve opened his eyes, quickly realizing that he was in a hospital room. The obnoxious beeping was a heart monitor, and he noticed a second itch in his forearm that reason told him was an IV. He gave none of this more than a passing thought as he tried to remember exactly what might have happened to his lower leg.

He was suddenly hit with memories so strong and painful it was like being bashed over the head with a brick. The explosion…a sharp, searing pain in his leg…being pelted with bits of flesh and not knowing if they were his…hands picking him up, carrying him off…the whir of helicopter blades…and he guessed that he'd passed out after that, because he couldn't remember anything between the chopper and this hospital.

Steve took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, to figure out what to do. That had always been his strong point, planning. It was why Joey had trusted him and-

_OhGodJoey_. Was he dead? He'd been running right next to Steve, and when the landmine had blown up, he would've gotten the full impact. Maybe it had even been Joey who'd stepped on it.

He didn't know now. He had no way to find out whether Joey, or Pete, or anyone else in his squad, were dead or wounded or had lost a leg…

Steve shut his eyes tightly, but that did nothing to block out the memories. He shifted, trying to find a way to curl up that didn't involve laying on what was left of his leg. He was still hoping that it was all just a bad dream, and that he would wake up to Pete's stupid greeting and find out they hadn't gone on their mission yet.

If this was a bad dream, the nightmares that awaited Steve when he fell into a tenuous half-sleep were far worse.

It was real. That was what Steve had found out with the intrusion of the too-bright sunrise through the thin white curtains. It was real, he had lost half his leg, and he had no idea what to do about it.

He learned that he was in Battery City Hospital, in southeast California. He learned that he had received an award for allowing most of his squad members to escape from what would've been a curb-stomp had they stayed, and they'd lost far fewer people from the landmine than they would have in combat. He learned that Korse, the vice president of Better Living Industries, was planning to assume leadership of the company soon, which meant that Steve, as a wounded soldier- he was still wrapping his mind around the "wounded" bit- would be given a lot of benefits and things. He learned that he would be discharged from the hospital in a few weeks, with a complementary motorized wheelchair, and that maybe later he could get a prosthetic. And nothing Steve learned made him feel any better.

It wasn't just the fact that getting out of bed was ten times harder due to his lopsidedness, or that sitting in a wheelchair all day was making his remaining leg ache like crazy. It was the overbearing sense of pity that he felt from the nurses who attended him, like they thought he was too stupid to understand the predicament he was in. He knew they were just doing their jobs and trying to make his stay as nice as possible (which was obviously not very nice under the circumstances), but it seemed to him as though they were being condescending and acting like he could hardly feed himself. They said very sweetly, "Oh, how are we doing today, Steve?" He'd always thought it was bullshit when people said "we" and meant "you," but now it was like everything that got on his nerves did so twice as much as usual since he had nothing to distract himself from them.

The minor annoyance he felt toward his nurses was nothing compared to what he felt toward himself, a crushing mixture of sadness, guilt, helplessness, and frustration bordering on contempt. Sometimes he woke up and wondered why he should bother figuring out how to maneuver out of bed, if any of it was worth it. He couldn't do anything anymore, and that made him angry.

He'd heard people say that you're often your own worst critic, and true to that he had begun abusing himself in ways he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. He never hurt himself physically, as he was already fucked up enough, but he indulged in a daily torrent of calling himself every name he could think of and keeping up a constant series of taunts about his inability to do anything the way he was used to, and about his pathetic attempts to readjust. Mostly, he just sat around and felt useless.

A week before he was due to check out, Steve heard on his room's flat-screen TV that there was medical research going on around cell regeneration. Nothing monumental had been achieved yet, but scientists in the city's research labs had managed to heal a paper cut instantaneously. There was hope that, with time, the process could be applied to more serious injuries, like bulletholes, broken bones, or even lost limbs. Steve stared at the screen for a few seconds after the ad was over, entertaining a tiny bit of hope that he wouldn't live like this forever, only to realize again that he still had no plans for what to do until that day, if it ever came; there was no telling whether they'd all be blown up by some terrorist group eventually.

They had tried to give him medication beyond what he took for pain, assuring him that it would make it easier to sleep, make the nightmares go away. Steve hated the thought of being even more dependant on his meds than he was already, and especially of admitting that he occasionally dreaded the thought of going to bed and having to relive the worst moments from his eight weeks in war again and again. He refused the extra meds. That turned out to be the best decision he had made in a long time.

The day he was due to be discharged, Steve was sitting up in bed eating the gross hospital lunch and staring at some trees out the window when a nurse came in and informed him that he had a visitor.

His initial reaction was that there must've been a mistake. No one he knew would want to visit him: all his friends from the army were probably in no state to travel, his commanders barely knew his name, he hadn't seen his parents since last Christmas, and who knew if they were still alive with all the wars going on around them?

He bit back a bitter laugh as he thought in almost childish excitement that it must be someone from his old band. It was a foolish thought because the group had split up in 2012, and he had heard nothing from them since the fires that same year, so it had been over six months since his last contact with any of them. It was ridiculous to think that they would even keep tabs on him, seeing as how they were probably struggling to stay alive just like the rest of Battery City, if they weren't already dead. Steve registered the fact that he'd been using the phrase "if they weren't already dead" pretty often in the last weeks, or if he was being honest, the last months after the fires.

He jerked out of his thoughts when the man who was apparently his visitor strutted into the room, clearly not realizing or caring how out-of-place he looked.

The man was dressed in a shirt that was way too short and had "NOISE" on it in block letters, blue polka dots on his pants, a thong, and to top it off, he wasn't wearing any shoes; he carried a pair of roller blades in one hand and a helmet it the other. He tucked the helmet under his arm as he approached Steve, shook his hand, and said in a high-pitched, fluttery voice, "Hi. I'm Show Pony."

Steve had to work to resist the urge to facepalm, and again considered the possibility that this was all just a very bizarre dream. "I'm Steve," he replied, figuring he might as well be polite; he really wanted to ask this weirdo what the hell he was doing here.

"I know," Show Pony said, rolling his eyes as though it were obvious. "I read your ad a while back and when I heard about what happened to you I thought maybe you could use some help?"

"Wha…" Steve suddenly recalled that he had posted an ad before joining the army, asking for someone with whom to run a radio show; at least that way he could remain connected to music, even if he was no longer in a band. "You…wanna be a DJ?"

Show Pony grinned obnoxiously and said, "Sure! But what's really important is you." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "We have to get you out."

"Out of the hospital? Well, yeah, I can't run a radio station from here- "

"No, out of the city."

Steve stared at him blankly. There was nothing outside of Battery City except nuclear wasteland. Where would they go?

"I heard from your nurse that you haven't been taking your extra meds," Show Pony went on quietly, in a mock-reprimanding tone. He smirked. "That's good. Those things would totally screw you up."

"How?" Steve was curious about why these pills were such a big deal.

"Because they take away emotions and the ability to think normally."

"That makes no sense!" Why would the government legalize something objectively bad like that? It was a ridiculous thought. Perhaps his aspiring co-host was a conspiracy theorist. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Better Living Industries wants to make it so they don't have any resistance from the free-thinkers," Show Pony replied coolly. "They just want everybody to be 'happy' and 'peaceful'- " he actually made finger quotes around the words "- by not letting them have feelings at all, or have the free will to disagree. That nurse who brought me in? I'd bet my blaster that she's on those meds. All the nurses here probably are. It keeps them from getting too emotionally invested in their patients."

"But…" Steve trailed off, thinking about how his nurses didn't just say the same sorts of things casually as though used to stupid pleasantries, but they said _exactly_ the same things every time, like robots. He wondered how that had never bothered him before, as the idea kind of creeped him out now.

His visitor went on, "And when they discharge you they'll pester you incessantly about it. 'Oh, take these drugs; they're the best thing ever,' all that propaganda crap. The best thing to do is to be a Killjoy."

Steve thought he had heard something about this rebel group, something like they were trying to kill everybody, but he didn't think much of those rumors: If there really were people living outside the city, which was improbable, why on Earth would they be trying to destroy the only stable government around? Years later, he would chuckle at the naiveté of this thought.

"So they exist, the Killjoys?" he asked Show Pony, trying not to let his disbelief be too apparent.

"Oh yeah," Show Pony said with another ear-to-ear grin. "They're out there. And I would know, 'cause I am one!"

Steve decided to play along. "I could be a Killjoy too, then?"

"Heck yes!" the man replied. "You need a totally awesome name, not that it'd ever be better than mine, of course. And we definitely have to get you a laser gun; you'll never be safe in the Zones without one."

Steve noted the way Show Pony spoke, as though they were no longer talking hypothetically. "This is really happening, then?"

"Well duh! We could really use a radio station in Zone 5, and it'd be super shiny if you could host it 'cause then we could send messages and play tunes- I heard you used to be in a band- and announce things and…" He rambled on for a while, but Steve mostly ignored his overenthusiastic chatter in favor of trying to decide whether the weird guy in the tights had a point.

He hadn't wanted to give up music, but had felt powerless waiting around for radio to be the sort of thing people acknowledged the existence of, and had gotten tired of that and joined the military, where he could at least find out more about what was happening in the wars. Now, without a band, a leg, or anyone who cared to recognize that he was still alive, Steve figured, _Why the hell not?_ It'd certainly be more interesting than wheeling around his apartment, and if half the things Show Pony was telling him were true, he'd rather not hang around and wait to be brainwashed anyway.

"Okay," Steve cut through his visitor's babble.

Show Pony's eyes lit up. "Really?" Without waiting for an answer he chattered even faster, "Thisissogreat! We'regonnabethebestradiohostsan dbuddieseverandI'dhug-youbutyoudon'tlooklikethetypewholikeshugs butwhocares!"

A second later, before he could work out anything the man had just said, Show Pony had flung his arms around Steve with a, "YAAAAAY!"

_This'll be…interesting,_ Steve thought, trying to get his new "best buddy" to stop choking him.

It had been certainly been a change of pace.

Moving out into the desert into an old, dilapidated diner off the highway was not exactly luxurious living, but Steve (or Dr. Death Defying, as he had called himself) soon found out that it beat living in Battery City by a long shot.

It turned out that, not only had Show Pony been right about everything he'd said, but the state of the city and its outskirts was far worse than the media had told them. Just the fact that the skyscrapers of the city were the only visible man-made thing for miles around was really creepy. Add to that the transmissions Dr. Death had been receiving from other radio hosts about the Killjoys, like how most of them lived in places that made this abandoned building look like the goddamn Ritz-Carlton, and the constant threat posed by the merciless Dracs he once thought of as simply there for protection and now fled from and fought almost daily, and he could confidently say that the world was far more fucked-up than he had thought.

The only good thing was that Dr. Death had a friend.

He would never tell him this, but he did value Show Pony's company. Just having someone to talk to made his days much better. Their radio show gave him a way to stay connected to the world and to feel like he was doing something- way more than what he could've done had he stayed. He begrudgingly found a lot of Show Pony's jokes funny, and they often teased each other about stupid stuff, which made him feel like he was back in the army again, only with relatively less of the bad things. Best of all, Show Pony, despite his mocking and carefree attitude, always seemed to respect him.

His co-host's "respect" was relative, of course, but Show Pony was never condescending or pitying like the nurses had been. He seemed genuinely interested to hear what Dr. Death had to say, even if he chuckled at the DJ's attempts to master Killjoy slang.

And, as Dr. Death would soon find out, his friend was also secretly badass.

It was during a routine weather broadcast- hot, dry, a hundred percent chance of awesome (_er, _shiny_…damn_) music- that a group of Dracs burst down the door and attacked.

This was not unusual; raids on Killjoys hideouts were a common thing to deal with, but it was very bad timing on the Dracs' part.

Dr. Death had loaned his blaster to Show Pony so that the latter could skate down to the store and get some apple juice, which he had been loudly announcing his desire for all day. So he was weaponless and facing four Dracs, all of which had their guns out and pointed right at him.

One walked forward and grabbed him by the collar, demanding to know the locations of other Killjoy bases. Dr. Death patiently explained that he had no idea where his comrades were and intended to keep it that way, since then he couldn't spill the beans on occasions such as this.

Predictably, the Drac punched him in the face, and his shiny (_booya!_) sunglasses that he had definitely not stolen from the last Drac who had attacked him went flying off. Another Drac stepped on them- accidentally or not didn't matter- and the sad little crunch the lenses made just pissed Dr. Death off. He grabbed his cane, the one he had totally not swiped from the hospital before they left, and clobbered the Drac upside the head.

In the chaos, he was aware that he missed being hit with at least two laser blasts, but before he could think of who to attack next a voice from outside yelled, "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

In rushed Show Pony, neon-pink laser gun at the ready, and he began picking off Dracs so quickly that by the time they realized that he was the one who had yelled and the reason they were getting shot, three lay dead on the floor. The last, who was nursing a bruise from Dr. Death's cane, turned just in time to see Show Pony swing his leg in an arc and, still wearing his roller blades, kick the Drac across the face and knock him unconscious.

"Are you okay?" he asked, coming over to see if Dr. Death was hurt. He wasn't, and a relieved Show Pony gave him a hug. Dr. Death was getting used to his friend's touchy-feely tendencies by now, but was still kinda uncomfortable.

The DJ surveyed the aftermath of the fight, a little irritated that they had more cleaning up to do, but happy that he wasn't dead. Then he remembered his sunglasses, and bent down to find them splintered to bits.

"Not the sunglasses! How could they do such a thing!?" Show Pony wailed in fake sadness.

Dr. Death rolled his eyes at his co-host's theatrics, but had to admit that he was grateful, and even a little impressed that the only casualty had been his shades- not counting the Dracs, of course.

"I got us some juice!" Show Pony announced, holding up the bottle. "You know, it's what I drink when I'm killin'- "

"'Cause it's fuckin' delicious," Dr. Death finished their mutual favorite song lyric with a smirk. "I know. You make that joke every time we have juice."

"Well, it's still true!"

The unlikely friends sat in their broken-down diner and enjoyed their juice together, like the crazy bastards they were.


	4. Track 2

"You might've heard that I run with a dangerous crowd. We ain't too pretty; we ain't too proud. We might be laughing a bit too loud, but that never hurt no one." ~Billy Joel, "Only the Good Die Young"

As was their custom on Fridays, the Killjoys woke up early, dressed as the sun was rising, and prepared to wreak havoc. For breakfast they ate, as on every other day of the week, canned refried beans and whatever else they could find. Today, though, they only had beans, which meant, as Kobra Kid helpfully informed them seven times, that they had to go to the gas station.

"If we just had something to make them taste better, that'd be great," Kobra said, after gagging yet again on a mouthful of the cold, slimy mush. "Like some chips or something. But just straight beans…Ick."

"Okay, so we'll make sure to get you extra, then," Fun Ghoul teased.

"Yeah, we'll buy every can they have," Party Poison chimed in through his own mouthful of gross bean-goo. "Yay!" On the last word, he stuck out his tongue.

Kobra, naturally, recoiled from the half-chewed, soggy beans with an, "Eww."

"Real mature, you guys," Jet Star chided, as he laughed along with everyone else.

After breakfast, the four of them and the Girl set out in the Trans-Am, with Party Poison driving recklessly fast down the empty desert road. The car's roof was down, and the CD player was blasting one of their favorite songs, Mad Gear and Missile Kid's cover of "Black Dragon Fighting Society." In the backseat, Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, and the Girl were all headbanging or playing very enthusiastic air guitar while trying not to hit one another. Kobra Kid, who had called shotgun, was attempting to tap his foot in time to the nonsensically fast beat, with little success. Party Poison drove one-handed; the other, hanging nonchalantly out the window, was the only relaxed part of him: He managed to drum the fingers of the first hand on the steering wheel and tap his foot so quickly it looked like he was having a muscle spasm. He did all this while singing at the top of his lungs, and it was in this loud, generally chaotic fashion that the Trans-Am pulled into the only gas station in Zone 5 and screeched to a halt right as the song ended.

The owner and sole employee of the gas station was a thirty-something man with short, black hair, an odd habit of wearing mismatched and brightly colored socks, and an unwavering idolization of My Chemical Romance and, now, the Killjoys. He called himself Sweet Revenge.

There was something a bit off in his manner as he greeted them, though. He didn't look quite as happy as usual to see them; on the contrary, he was edgy and nervous, twice dropping the money they gave him for gas. Party Poison was the first to notice.

"You okay, man?" he asked casually, as Fun Ghoul accidentally knocked a bag of chips off a shelf in his hurry to check out the small assortment of cigarettes, and Sweet Revenge jumped at the sound.

"Huh?" the young man responded absently. "Yeah, yeah, fine." He was scowling out the window, watching the foot of the gas pump where Jet Star was practicing on his Gibson. "He sure likes that guitar of his, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Party replied. As Sweet Revenge was clearly in no mood to talk, Party sidled up to Fun Ghoul and asked to borrow his lighter.

He went outside, carefully selecting a spot where the ashes from his cigarette would be unlikely to make the whole gas station catch on fire. He ended up leaning against the wall of the convenience store, right next to one of those little ashtrays suspended over the trash can.

As he stood, burning through one of his three remaining smokes, Party Poison couldn't help admiring Jet Star, who was sitting in what would have been a painfully awkward position to anyone but him: one leg bent at the knee to support his guitar, the other folded underneath him, his back gradually sliding down the slick surface of the pump as he practiced extremely complicated riffs while looking almost bored. Party grinned, thinking of Jet's incredible enthusiasm for and dedication to his music. His passion was somehow still unchanged, even after a huge war, endless persecution, and six years of being on the run with no one to support it. The other three Killjoys had all mostly given up on their music, for one reason or another. Party was ashamed to be in that category.

_Well, I'm not completely a quitter, though, _he realized. _I did write that one song…_

Just the thought of it made him laugh. It was, without a doubt, the most over-the-top, ridiculous song he'd ever written. Wanting to fully enjoy and poke fun at its immaturity and devil-may-care attitude, he pulled the folded, coffee-ring-stained lyrics from his back pocket, where he always kept them. As he read them over- they were even sillier than he remembered- he found himself wondering what other people would think of his song. He chuckled again as he imagined a bunch of Dracs hearing the song, looking at one another in utter bafflement, and saying, "What the hell is this?!"

Party also wondered what his friends would have to say. He was sure that Show Pony, Sweet Revenge, and the Girl would all like the song (or, well, Sweet Revenge would as soon as he got over whatever was bugging him), and that both Dr. Death Defying and Kobra Kid would react with casual but mostly indifferent support. "Yeah, go ahead," Kobra would say. "You wanna write a crazy song where half the lyrics are just people going 'na' a lot, go for it. Have fun." And he would keep a totally straight face the whole time.

Fun Ghoul would probably be mildly supportive, Party decided. He'd think the song was a bit weird, but would find it amusing that it was basically just a big "screw you" to BLI, and a loud, obnoxious, neon-and-laser-filled one at that.

And Jet Star…well, he would most likely, after having a good laugh about the song's absurdity, take some encouragement from the fact that he wasn't as alone as he seemed. He would appreciate having someone else who still wanted to write songs, albeit ludicrous ones.

Lost in thought, Party Poison automatically ground out his cigarette and dropped the butt in the ashtray, barely noticing when a warm breeze swirled around him, ruffling his already untidy crimson hair. He did notice, however, when that same breeze snatched the page of lyrics from his hand, carrying it off in the direction of the road. He yelped and tried to grab it, but it was already tumbling along out of his reach, accompanied by little clouds of dust.

In a move that Party would later praise repeatedly as being "totally ninja," Jet Star reached out without looking up from his guitar strings and seized the page in midair. It was only when Party called, "Oh, thanks!" and started to walk over that Jet actually looked, with a puzzled, faraway expression, at what he was holding. When he drew it closer to him to read what it said, Party felt kinda awkward. It wasn't really the kind of thing he'd wanted to show anyone else, which was why he'd never actually done so. It was definitely not the best song he'd ever written, as it was borderline nonsensical and, if he ever sung it out loud, would just sound like a little kid screaming. He was sure, now, that Jet wouldn't really like the song at all.

So when Jet asked, "What is this?" there was nothing to do but reply, "Just a stupid song that I wrote a while back. It's not important." He held out his hand, expecting Jet to give it back and spare himself the immaturity.

But Jet kept reading, his expression changing from confusion to amusement as he finished. He smiled almost disbelievingly at Party before asking, "What is it about, exactly?"

"It's…uh," Party sank down next to him and tried to think of the most rational explanation for it; the song wasn't really about one thing in particular. He'd been trying to say several things at once, none of which now seemed to make any sense. "Well, it's about, like, BLI, and, um, how their way of life sucks and kind of taunting them, and it's also about feeling rebellious, and about being what you want to be, not acting how other people want you to act, but kind of, doing your own thing…" He trailed off awkwardly, figuring he'd be better off not saying that half of the reason he'd written the song was because he really hadn't liked the last album they'd done. Jet Star had been proud of it, though, and Party knew that it would be stupid to criticize such an old piece of work now.

It had been nice, at first, to be able to work on something simple: They'd all agreed that this album wouldn't try to top their last, that they'd instead make a back-to-basics rock album. That meant no concepts, no storyline, and no gimmicks. But when it was finished, Party had felt slightly unsatisfied, like the album hadn't reached its full potential. The songs themselves were all entertaining, of course, and "Death Before Disco" was still one of his favorites, but the album as a whole could've been much better.

But then one day, for reasons he still couldn't explain, he'd written the song Jet Star was rereading, trying to look as though he understood what the heck it meant. It had stemmed, quite simply, from Party getting a melody stuck in his head. There were no words, just "na na-na-na na-na-na…" But he'd come up with a few verses and a truly absurd chorus, and found it freeing. He'd figured the band could've used something like this, but it was too late to put it on the album now: the finished CD had just hit store shelves. So he had kept the lyrics with him, intending to suggest the song as an EP or something, but then the war had begun, and all thoughts of albums and that song were driven out of his mind as the band, now calling themselves Killjoys in protest against Better Living Industries' sudden takeover, was driven out of one of the few remaining cities in California.

And now here he was, trying to explain his pathetic attempt at grasping- what? Freedom? They had all of that they could ever want, and then some. Party Poison shook his head at his own childish idealism, just as Jet Star glanced back up at him and said, "I like it."

"What?" Party laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

"No," Jet gestured to the lyrics with a smile. "It makes sense. Like that part about 'drugs, gimmie drugs, I don't need it;' that's a really nice dig at BLI, and the chorus is flat-out hilarious, and then this little bridge section is kinda, well, outlandish, but it does make a good point. And- hey!" He broke off, grinning at the bottom of the page. "You wrote a guitar part?"

"I tried," Party sighed. "But then, seeing as how I know nothing about guitar, I basically just strung a bunch of notes and crap together."

"Well, let's see," Jet rested the page on the ground next to his thigh, so it was easy to see, and started to pick his way through the hastily scribbled tabs. Then he paused and looked back at Party, his eyebrows raised. "This is derived from a pentatonic scale, right?"

"Um, if you say so," Party replied. He was a songwriter, not a guitarist. "That was just some random thing I came up with, and I thought it sounded cool." He shrugged.

"It does," Jet said. He stared thoughtfully at the page for a minute before saying, "And I think I could make it sound even cooler. Could I borrow this- " he nodded at the sheet of lyrics "- and write the rest of the guitar part?"

Party snorted in disbelief. He was kidding, of course! "Why would you want to do that? I told you, it's just a stupid thing I wrote when I was bored."

"You can say that, but I think it's got real potential," Jet replied. "If you don't mind me doing my best to add to it- "

"Oh, all right," Party agreed in resignation. "Good luck, man." _You'll need it,_ he thought, and settled down to see what Jet could do.

After buying two packs of cigarettes, one for himself and one for Party Poison, Fun Ghoul appeared to have inadvertently broken Sweet Revenge.

It started when the Girl piped up, in the voice normally used by schoolchildren threatening to tell on someone, "Jet Star says smoking's bad for you."

"Does he?" Fun responded with polite disinterest.

"He says it makes you makes you smell bad, and your teeth fall out, and then you get cancer and die. And I'm not allowed to smoke, because it's"- she scrunched up her face, trying to remember Jet's words of wisdom, which she then had to sound out very precisely- "add-ict-ing."

Fun sighed. "He has a point. Smoking is bad for you, so, no, you shouldn't do it."

"But then, why do you?" The Girl asked, peering up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Because he's being a bad role model," Sweet Revenge snapped. "He tells you not to do something that he does himself."

Fun Ghoul was taken aback at such a drastic change in the normally friendly Killjoy's demeanor, but before he could say anything, Sweet Revenge continued, "He smokes because he's addicted to it, meaning he can't stop or he'll go through all sorts of 'terrible shit.'" He made air quotes around his head to illustrate his skepticism, which only confused the Girl more. "He's actually being a really hypocritical loser." The Girl still didn't quite know what he was talking about, though she did look offended that he was apparently insulting her friend.

But Sweet Revenge was clearly no longer addressing the Girl but beginning a tirade. Fun Ghoul crossed his arms and calmly waited for him to get out whatever it was he had to say.

His rant didn't really make much sense, though. Sweet Revenge went on for a few more sentences about how Fun was being a bad person, but Fun was sure he received a few secretive, apologetic glances, too. Then he changed targets for no apparent reason and started ranting about how the Dracs were also addicts; how they were just as bad, if not worse, than Fun, because they sucked people into addiction by telling them that pills could actually help them.

It was at that point that Fun Ghoul got slightly nervous and risked a glance at Kobra Kid. He was standing as he had been for the past minute or so, staring almost reverently at the coffee machine, trying to pick out the best flavor of espresso. But on the word "pills," he turned his head a little to better hear what Sweet Revenge was saying. That wasn't really necessary, as the man was ranting quite loudly.

"I mean, it's really just weakness," Sweet Revenge continued, expressing his opinions vehemently to no one in particular. Kobra narrowed his eyes. "All those losers are totally weak and hopeless and lazy, too, and so they think that taking a bunch of drugs will solve their problems." Kobra tensed, his hand curling into a fist.

_Shut up, _Fun thought, wishing Sweet Revenge could read minds so he'd know just how deep he was digging his own grave.

But he went on, "And then they get all dependant, and pretty soon, they won't even try to live without their precious meds to make them happy, the cowardly, worthless- "

He was cut off abruptly when Kobra Kid strode quickly over, leaned across the counter so that his face was inches from Sweet Revenge, and snarled, "You have _no idea _what you're talking about, and you'd better shut the hell up about things you don't understand. Got it?"

As Kobra appeared to be expending every bit of willpower he had to keep from breaking Sweet Revenge's nose, the man had no choice but to reply, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Kobra leaned back and walked quickly past Fun Ghoul and the Girl, both of whom looked shocked and slightly wary. When he reached the door, he turned and announced, "I'm going off to the vending machines around back."

The Girl said excitedly, "Can I come? You know I'm really good at hacking! Please?"

Kobra considered for a few seconds, his eyes flicking from the Girl to Sweet Revenge, who looked like he wanted to hide under the counter, before snapping, "Fine."

She followed him out, leaving it up to Fun Ghoul to explain how Sweet Revenge had crossed a line.

"What's his problem?" asked the dangerously ignorant man, his scoffing losing all its effect due to the quaver in his voice.

"Kobra's bipolar," Fun Ghoul shook his head, wondering how, after five years of running the gas station and seeing them at least once a week, Sweet Revenge still didn't know this. "No, that's not why he got all pissed at you," Fun added, and watched as the look of smug comprehension on the man's face faded back into confusion. "His disorder's well-controlled on the meds we steal from the Dracs, but he's really sensitive about it. Says he doesn't like to put us at risk, so he usually makes those raids on his own."

"Oh," Sweet Revenge replied, at a loss for words. "I-I didn't mean to insult him, I didn't know…"

"It's okay," Fun said, trying to respond with sympathy he did not really feel. "He'll forgive you soon enough; he just needs to calm down."

"Hey," the cashier began contemplatively. "Kobra wouldn't happen to take lithium, would he?" He dug around under the counter and pulled out a small bottle of prescription pills, which he set between them. They were prescribed to someone called Leonard. "I got these off a Drac who came in here about a week ago. It was okay, I chased him out," he added hastily in response to Fun Ghoul's concerned glance, "but he left these behind. I figured, I didn't need them, but maybe they'd come in handy for something. And they have: would you mind giving these to Kobra and telling him I'm sorry?"

Fun was tempted to say, "Tell him yourself," but figured Sweet Revenge had enough problems of his own to deal with; he must've been having a terrible day to go on a rant like that. So Fun just nodded and asked him to keep the medicine and cigarettes while he went outside to finish a new explosive he'd been working on. Sweet Revenge agreed, before staring out the window at where Party Poison and Jet Star were sitting by the gas pump, singing a song. It sounded like all the lyrics were just "na na na…" but they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, while Sweet Revenge, for some unfathomable reason, appeared to be trying not to cry.

Kobra Kid and the Girl walked past their friends' "EXTERMINATE" posters on the garage door next to the vending machine that, despite having been untouched by Dracs for five years, had not yet run out of supplies. The Girl settled onto a nearby trash can and waited eagerly as Kobra pulled a handheld electronic device out of a pocket in his jacket. He handed her the Vend-A-Hack, which she plugged into the slot on the vending machine normally reserved for dollar bills. She turned it on and started pressing various combinations of buttons.

"Is Fun Ghoul gonna die?" the Girl asked suddenly. She didn't look up from her work, but her voice was full of worry.

"We're all gonna die someday, you know," Kobra Kid replied impatiently.

"I know that," she said, sounding equally irritated, "but will he die soon? 'Cause…that'd suck," she finished more quietly.

Kobra scooped a pair of double-A batteries out of the vending machine's tray and wished he could tell her for sure that they would all be fine. "No," he answered finally. "He's tough; he'll be okay."

The Girl nodded, accepting this. She was silent for a moment, engrossed in the task of getting a D battery, which fell into the tray with a _clunk_. Then she asked, "Is that why you got mad at Sweet Revenge? Because he said you weren't tough?"

Kobra was impressed at how perceptive she was; she'd gotten right to the heart of what had infuriated him, and what he saw now as being a bit of an overreaction. "Well, not just me," he said, and felt a new rush of irritation at Sweet Revenge's accusations.

"Fun Ghoul, too, right?" The Girl apparently wanted to make sure that she'd understood most of the back-and-forth that had preceded the cashier's rant.

"Yeah, he insulted Fun Ghoul too, and also…" Kobra Kid paused to think of how best to explain this. "Think you could get a laser gun?"

The Girl said, "Sure!" and resumed her button mashing, giving Kobra a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

"Okay, um…" he began awkwardly. "You know how I have to take some medicine every morning?"

"So you don't get sick in the head," the Girl responded knowledgeably.

"Right," Kobra was glad they'd already had that conversation; it made this one easier. "Well, Sweet Revenge basically said that everybody who does that is weak."

She frowned. "That's stupid."

"Yeah, it is. That's why I got mad."

The Girl was having some trouble getting a laser blaster out of the vending machine, and Kobra was already leaning over her shoulder to see what was wrong when she said, "It's not working. Could you maybe- "

He pressed the button marked with an image of a ray gun, and, when that didn't work, pounded on the front of the vending machine. "There!" he exclaimed as a white, standard-issue Draculoid gun fell out. He loaded it up with the double-A batteries and slipped it into his waistband.

"I don't think you're weak," the Girl announced abruptly, gazing up at him with admiration. "I think you're totally shiny."

"Aww, thanks," Kobra Kid replied. "I think you're shiny too- not to mention great at hacking." They exchanged high-fives, and the Girl jumped down off the trash can and followed him back around the building, tucking the Vend-A-Hack into her vest.

But when they walked around the corner, they were met with an unexpected danger: A patrolling group of Dracs had come upon the gas station and attacked the Killjoys.

Three of them surrounded Fun Ghoul, who was lying on the ground and trying to cover his head as they kicked him. Jet Star was hiding in the Trans-Am, protecting his guitar (and himself: Kobra found out later that he'd almost been hit with a bottle). Party Poison was engaged in a fistfight with a fourth Drac, and just as Kobra wondered why no one was using laser guns, Party punched out his opponent and called over, "Don't shoot them, or the gas might explode!"

Kobra Kid slipped his gun back in its holster and told the Girl to go back to the vending machine to keep her out of harm's way. She dashed off, and he reached into the pocket on his jacket and produced his favorite close-combat weapon, a souped-up Power Glove. He stepped out into the sun (fortunately he had on his sunglasses) and prepared to do battle.

The three Dracs attacking Fun Ghoul had glanced around at Party's words, giving Fun the opportunity to roll aside and get to his feet. All three Killjoys then struck at once. Party tackled the nearest Drac and shot him, pressing the laser gun into his enemy's chest so there was no chance of it touching any gasoline. Fun Ghoul leapt at another one and slashed across its neck; Kobra noticed a glint of steel in his hand as the Drac fell, its throat lacerated and bleeding. Kobra took down the third easily, seizing it around the neck with his Power Glove and administering a fatal electric shock.

Party stood and surveyed the damage before saying, calmly and quickly, "We'll make a run for it. I'm going to guard the Girl. Fun Ghoul, get the bomb ready, along with whatever else you think we need. Kobra, there's one more in there." He nodded at the gas station and strode off around the convenience store.

Kobra Kid entered the dingy store with his laser drawn and adrenaline lighting up his veins, and saw Sweet Revenge cowering before yet another Drac who held him at gunpoint. "No! Don't kill them! Please!" the cashier pleaded with his captor.

Kobra was satisfied to see that he was crying, and felt even better when Sweet Revenge turned to him desperately and sobbed, "Oh Kobra, I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking!"

Kobra dispatched the Drac with a single laser blast, and Sweet Revenge continued, "I was such an idiot, I was trying to make myself feel superior, and I just went too far. I'm so sorry! I'll never, ever do anything like that again!"

"All right," Kobra cut him off. "I get it. It's okay. I know you didn't mean anything by what you said."

Sweet Revenge frowned and wiped his eyes. "Um…You should take all your stuff with you." And he held out two packs of cigarettes, some chips, several cans of beans, a grocery bag, and a bottle of prescription medication.

Kobra put the cigarettes and groceries in the bag, but stared blankly at the meds.

"For you," Sweet Revenge explained briskly. "A token of my apology."

Kobra Kid stared at him in amazement; he knew only too well how hard lithium was to come by. "Where'd you get this?"

"It was complicated," the younger man said. After a pause, he added offhandedly, "You know, if you were a Drac, it'd be pathetically easy to get lithium, and whatever else you needed."

Kobra laughed. "That's funny, man." With sarcasm flaking freely off his voice, he added, "Yeah, I'd be a Drac, that'd be a shiny way to live. It'd be awesome to abandon all my friends. Great, yeah."

"Well, you'd better get going, 'cause your friends are gonna leave." Sweet Revenge pointed over to the Trans-Am, where Party Poison was climbing into the driver's seat with the Girl already in the back, and Fun Ghoul was hefting what looked like a grenade launcher out of the trunk.

Kobra zipped the bottle of pills into the inside pocket of his jacket, thanked Sweet Revenge, and started to leave. At the door he turned back, and, with a glance at the body on the floor, said, "We'll come back later and help you…you know, clean up."

But Sweet Revenge dismissed this, saying, "Thanks, but you've done enough." His voice held a strange combination of resentment and relieved gratitude, and he waved at Kobra, smiling.

Kobra Kid waved back, shook his head at how confusing people could be, and walked out.

As they sped off in the opposite direction from the diner to keep Dracs from finding their headquarters, Fun Ghoul hoped they were being followed. Then maybe he'd get a chance to use the grenade launcher sitting at his feet. And sure enough, Jet Star, who was scanning the road through the back windshield, soon declared, "Here they come!"

To avoid wasting his grenades, Fun Ghoul first borrowed Jet Star's gun and stood up out of the open sunroof, shooting at the approaching motorcycles. But their windshields were laser-repellant, like the all Trans-Am's glass. He managed to take out one, and then felt a battle-induced thrill of excitement as he recognized Korse's black Lamborghini coming up behind the motorbikes.

He called to the Girl, who helped him lift the grenade launcher up and steady it against the roof of the car. As per their little inside joke, every day was a good day for weapons training. He supported it and she took careful aim and pulled the trigger.

With a noise like a tiny rocket taking off, the projectile struck one of the motorbikes and exploded, the shockwave knocking a second Drac off course. He veered in front of the Lamborghini, and at the same time a sharp piece of shrapnel punctured the car's tire. The Drac driving slammed on the brakes, which only made the car fishtail. It ended up swerving off the road and settling in a cloud of dust.

The Girl cheered and grinned at Fun Ghoul adoringly, and he started laughing, both of them streaked with a few ashes from the explosion that had erupted from the back of the launcher. They sat back down and Fun hugged her, remembering as he did so what Sweet Revenge had said about him: _"He's being a bad role model."_

Well, so what if he was? He and the other Killjoys were the best she'd get and they loved each other, cigarettes, bipolar disorder, ridiculous music, and all.

It was a damn good Friday.


	5. So Far From You

"Say goodbye, the hundredth time, and then tomorrow we'll do it again." ~My Chemical Romance, "Drowning Lessons"

It had been the best day of his life, back when his name was Cameron.

He remembered that feeling now, as he watched the tiny computer screen, and saw himself when he was only seventeen, chosen above every other candidate for this performance. He'd said that he was stoked for it, but "stoked" didn't begin to cover it.

He could recall, even after fourteen years, the feeling of unparalleled excitement that had filled him almost to bursting when he received the news that he would not be playing some random extra in this video, which would've been honor enough, but the _sixth pallbearer_. He, who had always considered himself just another fan, just another life saved, was selected for this.

His eagerness only grew as he watched the other fans file into the chapel, and as they all sat in the pews and filled the air with a hum of energetic talking, he knew he had been given something truly special. To be worthy of carrying the coffin that contained (albeit metaphorically) the beloved grandmother of the people he owed everything to was beyond belief.

So he waited, basking in pride and bliss, as the actors, dancers, and choreographers did their thing. He was struck with a nagging impression of similarity, an unfortunate déjà vu, as he realized that this church looked almost exactly the same as the one he'd gone to at the age of eight for his mother's funeral service.

He shook his head to clear out such thoughts: this was a happy day, not a time for reliving sad memories. All the other fans had testified to this in their interviews, and he himself had said what a great time this would be. But he still couldn't shake the feeling that his mother should've had a send-off like this.

That thought only intensified when it came time to shoot the pallbearing scene. The sky had darkened considerably by then, and a light rain was beginning to fall. He quickly adjusted his sleeves as the director called him outside, covering the tiny, horizontal scars on his wrists- he didn't want to further the image some people had of My Chemical Romance as promoting suicidal ideation, after all, and it was better to forget that he'd gone through such a sad time anyway.

He hefted the casket onto his shoulder and at first was surprised by how light it was: he'd have thought a large, wood-and-metal container would be heavier, even if it was empty. But as they started down the steps, past the umbrella-wielding dancers, it seemed like all the weight of the thing alternately floated up so that he thought he would lose his grip, and, right when he took a step down the stairs and needed his balance most, crashed down on his left side.

Despite the difficulty that carrying the heavy casket presented, he was determined to stay strong, even when the director stopped them halfway down the stairs to talk about the final verse of the song and they awkwardly lowered the casket onto the handrail. This was, after all, the most important thing he'd ever done.

He shifted under the weight of both the coffin and his lurking feeling of sadness as they continued shooting. He was ecstatic, of course, but he still wished that his father had thought of doing something this grand for his mother's funeral. It was monumental while still being traditional, the sort of thing that his mom deserved. He couldn't help but think of her as he watched Gerard, his idol, lip-synching his favorite lines: "_Well, if you carry on this way, things are better if I stay. So long and goodnight…so long and goodnight._"

Finally, they approached the hearse and shifted the casket together, resting it on the edge of the rear section. On cue, they slid the casket into the hearse and began to walk away. And as Gerard closed the door with a tiny click and peered through the glass, the sixth pallbearer turned back briefly, knowing how stupid he was to do this, and whispered, "Goodbye, Mom." The curtains came down.

The video ended there, but the freshly-renewed feelings of guilt and sorrow did not, and so the beaten-up, burnt-out owner of the gas station went to bed that night with tears on his face. He wept for the boy he had been, the mother he had lost, and the man he had become.


	6. Track 3

"Everybody's talking 'bout the new sound; funny, but it's still rock and roll to me." ~Billy Joel, "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me"

Jet Star sat on the top of the dune, looking up into the night sky. The stars were starting to come out in tiny twinkling flashes, sparkles of glitter in the indigo cloth above him. Perhaps he could capture that somehow…

He checked the settings on his portable amplifier and cradled his guitar. He strummed a few notes experimentally, pausing to mark down the ones he liked on the papers of sheet music spread out in the cooling sands around him. This was his attempt at rewriting their old song "Trans-Am," which had been great, but as long as he was working on music, he figured he might as well try to put a new spin on it. He'd come up with a synthesis of flowing chords to match the inspirational words that conveyed the sense of justified confidence they'd felt, and now touched on the great relationships he had with his fellow Killjoys, and the melody was an endless field that he wouldn't mind getting lost in.

While writing "Na Na Na" for Party Poison (and for himself, as well), he'd gotten a feeling of meaning that he hadn't known since…well, since he'd chosen to become a Killjoy. It was like he was on the edge of a cliff, about to bungee jump off without knowing if the rope would hold, but feeling compelled to do it in spite of the danger. Or was it because of the danger?

"Hey." He was enveloped in a voice and a thin cloud of sunrise-and-mint-scented smoke and turned.

"Hello, Fun Ghoul," Jet replied. His friend looked a bit out of place, so he cleared away the papers on his right and invited him to sit. The younger man sank down next to him, legs extended down the dune, hands planted behind him, a cigarette between his lips. The ember on its tip glowed deep red and orange, broken by specks of black, like a photograph of the sun.

After a moment, Jet Star asked, "What brought you up here?"

Fun Ghoul shifted, preparing to stand up as he said, "I came to see what you were doing. If you'd rather be alone, I could…"

"No, you're fine," Jet smiled as his friend settled back to a comfortable position. "I'm working on a song."

"Another one?" Fun Ghoul took a drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth farthest from Jet. It rolled, the child of a cumulonimbus cloud moving across the dark air.

"Yeah. Would you like to hear it?"

"Uh, sure." He raised an eyebrow in mild interest, shrugged.

"It's called 'Bulletproof Heart.'"

Jet Star started to play and sing, wishing as he always did that his voice sounded as perfectly melodious as his guitar. The notes washed over them like water, and Jet found himself nodding along with the beat as his fingers slid up and down the strings, easily melding into each configuration. As he reached the second verse, he felt pleasantly amazed at how much of the song had passed already and how much more was to come. A feeling of incredible, boundless contentment and peace welled up in his stomach (_this is right,_ he knew. _Perfect_) and he launched into the chorus with extra passion to keep it from overwhelming him. And he appeared to have succeeded in capturing stars in the breakdown, he noted joyously. He could have floated away had it not been for the concentration required by his hands on the strings.

Fun Ghoul liked it. It was not the kind of music he'd choose to listen to, sharing Kobra Kid's affinity for heavy metal, but he closed his eyes and let the music surround him. He nodded and clapped along with the verses and sung along with the choruses. When the final note faded with Jet Star's voice, he applauded, grinning.

"That was shiny! No, that was awesome!" Fun Ghoul cheered.

"Thanks," Jet started to laugh out of pure happiness, and his friend joined in.

When they'd both finished their final sighs of satisfaction and lay back on the sand, Fun Ghoul turned to him with curiosity and asked, "Have you ever thought that our fourth album should've been like that?"

"All the time," Jet confessed.

"I mean, the kind of rock and roll we did is fun and all, but…"

"It wasn't what you really wanted." Jet stated, his voice full of the muted regret he knew so well.

"Exactly," Fun Ghoul seemed relieved that someone agreed with him. "It was typical. Boring. Predictable. But this," he gestured to his friend's guitar, "is new- even though I know it's old- and sounds fantastic and it's freaking _shiny_." He grinned again. "It's like a road trip."

"What?" Jet blinked in confusion.

"It reminds me of the tours we used to go on, back when we were a band. How we'd travel cross-country without a care in the world." Fun Ghoul took another drag on his cigarette, and then ground it out against his boot. He dropped it into the sand.

"Young and fun-loving and innocent, living on chips and a dream." Jet Star chuckled. "Remember how you used to forget me at truck stops?"

"I…don't know what you're talking about." Fun Ghoul couldn't help laughing again, ruining his charade of ignorance. Jet's nostalgia, one-third of which was joking, added to his, and Fun found himself wishing those times could go on forever, the way the song had seemed to.

"Hey, Jet Star…" He was still working out exactly what he meant as he formed the words, so he sounded awkward to himself. "Would you mind if I, like, accompanied you in some of these songs, on guitar? I still have mine; I kept it. It's probably somewhere in those piles of stuff in the diner. I'd have to practice, of course, but I could find it and tune it and I'd need to practice a bunch to get some calluses but…" He was rambling now, and Jet gently interrupted him.

"Sure you can join me. I could use a rhythm guitarist, and I'm honored that you like my songs enough to want to help with them." He was also glad that Fun Ghoul had not forgotten music's value in entertainment, inspiration, and the keeping of memories; it was, he thought, truly one of the best things in life.

They went in after that, Fun walking with a new sense of purpose and Jet Star carrying his amp and guitar. Before they reached the bottom of the dune, though, he let Fun Ghoul walk ahead of him, and climbed back to the same spot. He looked up at the stars that inspired him, felt glad he had named himself after them…and picked up the cigarette butt on his way back to the diner.


	7. Cigarette Break

"Got a rolled-up cigarette hangin' out his mouth; he's a cowboy kid. Found a six-shooter gun in his dad's closet, in a box of fun things; I don't even know what, but he's comin' for you, yeah, he's comin' for you." ~Foster the People, "Pumped Up Kicks"

Fun Ghoul liked to smoke.

It was partly because he was addicted, yes, but he had allowed himself to be. With great effort, he probably could wean himself off his drug of choice, but he never saw any reason to do so. When the air was full of factory-made carcinogens already, and God-knows-what-else, a little more couldn't hurt.

He found it funny that BLI almost encouraged people to become addicts- if not to their pills, then to the overwhelming security provided by the ignorance they created- and here he was, observing the enemy's method of developing addiction even as he strengthened his own. While they looked far removed from one another- and as far as their ways of life were concerned, they were mostly exact opposites and thus, enemies- their lives were ultimately affected, to some extent, by dependence.

The Drac he was eyeing was aware of it, too, which was why he made no move to attack or otherwise disturb Fun Ghoul as the latter stood comfortably in his own little patch of desert, wearing his ridiculously flashy clothes, his discolored Frankenstein mask pulled in a decidedly cocky fashion to one side of his head, with a lit cigarette held loosely in his mouth.

Even with this similarity acknowledged to the point of a brief truce, Fun felt a marked distinction from his enemy, which lay in the reason for their addictions. The people of BLI fell or, more often, were pushed into certain habits, like taking an innocuous little pill every morning to make them feel good. They grew more accustomed to the things with each passing day, and soon enough, though they might not even realize it, it became nearly impossible to contemplate living without them, and such simple, barely noticeable routines became essential to their existence.

In contrast, Fun Ghoul had known exactly what he was getting into when he'd bought his first pack of smokes; he was fully aware, thanks to the media and all those long talks about peer pressure he'd received in school, of just how dangerous smoking was to your health and how getting addicted would ruin your life in any number of horrible ways, some of which included choking on tar in your lungs constantly before eventually dying of cancer alone (because no one liked to kiss smokers), and so on. He'd heard it all before, and was prepared to accept whatever consequences came of this choice. And he remained firm in his conviction that it was better to suffer from one thing willingly than to have someone else force something worse upon you. "Pick your poison," the saying went, and he had. It could hardly be called suffering, anyway.

Well, except for the whole "choking on tar" thing; that had turned out to be a pretty accurate description of the occasional, nasty coughing fits he experienced. But didn't everything in life involve some sort of sacrifice?

Fun had chosen this form of contamination for a number of reasons, chiefly individuality. He was no stranger to pop culture, and as such was familiar with the notion that smoking was "cool," the kind of thing a "rebellious" person would do. But he hadn't started because he was a wannabe, trying to act the part of what this new society thought a rebel should be: someone who was independent and utterly nonconformist, free from all manner of compulsions, brainwashed or otherwise. If anything, he was a smoker because such a dependency was the exact reason many people had conformed to BLI's regime, and to be an addict who was rebelling against a culture that promoted addiction really fucked with their heads.

Fun Ghoul faced his enemy as though taunting a bullet-less firing squad, surveying the Drac with tranquility streaked with a touch of irritation, as if to say, "What the hell are you doing, disturbing me while I'm trying to get things done? You're a pathetic idiot, and I'll put you in your place shortly, just as soon as my cigarette break's over."

While his opponent waited kindly for Fun Ghoul to finish feeding his addiction so they could do battle, Fun savored another reason he enjoyed smoking: the sensation. He loved the feeling of the smoke in his throat, the fact that something that looked like a harmless fog and smelled a little like mint could create that sharp burning, as though there was a stream of fire cutting into his lungs. He loved the familiar taste of tobacco, the way the cigarette fit into the curves in his lips, the delicate clicking of his lighter as it produced a small, fluttering flame. And the fact that he was accustomed to regularly inhaling toxins into his body was always thrilling. Smoking was an intoxicatingly confusing combination of comfort and risk, and Fun Ghoul relished it.

With a glance at the Drac, who was now adjusting his shirt collar, Fun registered the thought that, while a single opponent would be an easy kill as always, they were fond of calling for backup, and the arrival of six or seven Dracs out for his blood would put him in considerable peril. He took another drag on his cigarette, exhaling the acrid cloud through his nose this time. In a few moments he would toss the remnants of his delightfully dangerous addiction into the sand and use the myriad of weapons at his disposal to thoroughly kick the asses of all the Dracs who were stupid enough to try and stop him from being who he was.

But for now, Fun Ghoul was smoking, and that was all he cared about.


	8. Track 4

"When you're scared but you still do it anyway, _that's_ brave." ~_Coraline _by Neil Gaiman

It was at 4 p.m. on a boring, typically hot Tuesday that the Killjoys made yet another life-changing decision.

Most of them were hanging out in various stages of half-napping, and Party Poison was lying in a booth and contemplating the benefits and drawbacks of expending the effort necessary to get some juice, when Jet Star announced that he and Fun Ghoul were going to start a band.

"Well, not really a band," Jet explained, "but something like that, 'cause we're gonna play our guitars and sing and stuff…"

"Basically," Fun chimed in, "he's writing songs and I'm helping him with making them sound good."

"Well, could we hear one?" Show Pony asked from his perch on the edge of Dr. Death Defying's desk. "I mean, we've got nothing better to do."

"Ooh, yeah!" The Girl, who had been sitting next to Kobra Kid and listening eagerly to him as he invented a bizarre story about unicorn assassins, agreed. Kobra chuckled at her short attention span, and watched the two guitarists settle into chairs beside their amps and prepare their instruments.

As they tuned their guitars, Jet Star glanced at Party Poison, who was now sitting up expectantly, and said, "I think we'll start off with 'Na Na Na', then." The Girl giggled as she recognized the title. "Party, I'd invite you to sing along, but seeing as how you've never actually heard us play this song before, it might mess up the timing…"

"That's okay," Party replied easily. "I'd like to see what you've done with it." He smiled, and then added, "Oh, but the title needs a bit of work. It really should have like forty-seven na's in it."

"Well then, we'll have to fix that, won't we?" Fun Ghoul grinned, and then announced with mock solemnity, "By the powers vested in me as the rhythm guitarist, I hereby rename this song…" He paused dramatically, before bursting out, "'Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na!' There. Now it's got twelve. Is that good enough?"

Party Poison, who was chuckling too hard to speak, gave a thumbs-up. Over in the next booth, the Girl was cracking up and Kobra was smirking, one eyebrow raised as if to say, _Really, guys? _"Oh, this is gonna be good," Show Pony said.

Dr. Death Defying stared at them for a few seconds in bemusement before stating calmly, "What the hell," which made everyone laugh more.

When they had all settled down and Jet Star and Fun Ghoul were ready, the song began. Party Poison was impressed; it actually sounded very good. It was upbeat, extremely catchy (he couldn't resist singing along with the choruses), and not once did it seem to drag on, not even during the slow, dreamy bridge section. And, in typical Jet Star fashion, the solo was both complicated and incredibly shiny. When the solo finished on a high-pitched vibrato and both guitarists yelled, "NA NA-NA-NA NA-NA-NA NA-NA-NA NA!" Party Poison nearly collapsed from laughter and an unexpected feeling of victory: His song did sound exactly like a bunch of kids screaming, and it was _awesome_. When the song ended, he gave a fist pump and called, "YEAH!" before applauding enthusiastically with everyone else.

"That was amazing, you guys!" Kobra Kid exclaimed.

"I still don't get it, but that was pretty cool," Dr. Death allowed.

"Cool?" Show Pony shot back. "Are you kidding? That was hilarious _and_ shiny! It can't get much better than that!"

"No, it can't," Party Poison agreed. He hesitated, and then asked, "Jet Star? Fun Ghoul? I know this'll sound kinda stupid, but…"

"Go on," Jet encouraged. "The last stupid idea you had gave us that song, after all."

"Okay, well, could I join your band? Like, would you mind?"

"Of course you can!" Fun replied. "We were kind of assuming you would, actually. It's not all that easy to sing and play guitar at the same time, you know."

"Shiny," Party grinned. "Thanks, guys."

"Ooh! Can I join, too?" The Girl piped up. "I can play piano!"

Fun Ghoul looked a little pained. "Well, kid, I'd say yes, but I don't know if you're good enough to- "

"No, she is," Jet Star interrupted. The Girl's face, which had grown more downcast with each of Fun's carefully selected words, brightened again. "She actually wrote her own part for 'Na Na Na.' I helped her a bit, but it was mostly her. Would you like her to show you?"

"Yes, I would," Fun replied. He turned to the Girl. "Not to be mean or sound like I don't trust you or anything, you understand, but I just want to make sure you can handle it."

"I can!" she said defensively. She jumped up and ran over to the electric keyboard they kept in the corner. Jet helped her move it over near the amps and plugged it in for her.

"Just play the first verse," he suggested. "That should be enough."

"'Kay," the Girl chirped. She played and sung the intro and first verse of "Na Na Na" very clearly, and what few mistakes she did make, she glanced over and kept going so that no one but Jet Star noticed. When she finished, she rested her hands against the base of the keyboard and smiled shyly around, waiting for someone to say something.

There was a shocked pause, and then everyone started clapping for her. She blushed, not used to this sort of reception, as Show Pony whistled and Jet Star cheered. After the noise died down, Fun Ghoul told her, "Well, I was definitely wrong. I'm sorry. And you can totally join the band."

"Yay!" The Girl exclaimed, skipping back over to Kobra Kid. Still blushing, she leaned her face on his arm.

Then Show Pony asked, with an affectionately mocking tone and an overenthusiastic grin, "Can I join the band, too, you guys?"

Dr. Death glared at him. "And you play what instrument, exactly?"

"My beautiful voice is the only instrument I need," Show Pony simpered. Then he added, more seriously, "Or I could always learn to play drums. You guys do need a drummer."

"Aw crap, that's true," Party Poison muttered, his forehead creasing in concern.

"I can help with that," Dr. Death said. Party looked at him quizzically, and he explained, "I can mix drum tracks for you on my computer. Then we can all decide what it should sound like, so we don't have to worry about anybody learning to play drums, and we don't have to screw around with lifting heavy drum sets in and out of the van at concerts."

Kobra Kid frowned.

"Ooh! That's it!" Show Pony beamed with real excitement this time. "I can be a stage ninja!"

"A what?" asked Jet Star.

"The people that wear all black and run around onstage to help with set changes and carrying stuff." Party explained.

"Yeah," Show Pony smirked. "I'd be totally awesome at that."

"Except for the part where those guys are supposed to be inconspicuous," Fun Ghoul smirked harder. "And you're definitely not."

Show Pony snorted. "I'm not really sure what your big, fancy, smart-person word means, but you're just jealous 'cause you know I'd be the best stage ninja ever."

"What the hell, why not," Party said. "We'll have a flashy stage ninja. That could be like a calling card or something."

Show Pony cheered, Fun Ghoul sniggered, and Kobra Kid walked over to Party and asked quietly, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Party Poison nodded, and the two went out to the patio. The Girl stared after her friends, worried, until Jet Star complimented her again on her piano playing, and everyone started talking about how great she had been.

Outside, Kobra leaned against the wall and ran his fingers through his hair before Party Poison asked, "What's up?"

"I-I don't think it's a good idea for us to hold concerts," Kobra Kid replied, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk.

"Why not?" Party asked, and then added with a grin, "We do have an excellent stage ninja now."

"You know why," Kobra glared briefly at him, his teeth clenched, before returning his gaze to the ground. "Or did you forget what happened at our last concert?"

_Oh,_ Party thought. _He's still upset over that._ But he couldn't really blame Kobra for being unsettled, even six years after My Chemical Romance's final and undoubtedly worst performance. After all, none of them had expected, even with BLI's threats, that such a shaky, just-established government could not only cut off his brother's medication but also throw all four of them in jail.

"Kobra, it'll be different this time," Party reasoned, trying to convince himself as much as the former bass player. "We don't have to worry about BLI screwing us up now; they have no clue where we'll perform. They don't even know we have a band yet."

"We don't have a band yet," Kobra pointed out. "And- look, I'm sorry, but if you guys decide to do something as dangerous as grouping everybody in our resistance movement in one room and then advertising it, you can count me out." He crossed his arms.

Party sighed. He had hoped that six years would be long enough for all of them to get over the one awful week following their final concert, but he understood Kobra's hesitation: He didn't want anything like that to happen again if there was any way he could prevent it. So he said, "All right. No concerts."

"You sure the rest of your 'band' will be okay with you making a decision like that?" Kobra Kid challenged, still tensing his jaw.

"Oh, Show Pony can find something else to do. And I'm sure that every one of our friends would object to playing without you," Party Poison replied. "We all need you, you know."

"I know," Kobra said quietly. He lifted his eyes back to Party, who recognized in his brother's face something he hadn't seen there in six years: fear. "But I don't know if I can do that for them, for you. Concerts or no concerts, I just…"

"Kobra, I got your back, man," Party reassured him, wishing he could find better words to convey what he meant. "I'd never ask you to do more than I think you're capable of and I totally trust that you'll do awesome if you decide to join. Plus, all of us will completely support you." He smiled warmly. "Remember 'Famous Last Words?'"

"Yeah," Kobra responded, and though his voice sounded disinterested, Party could see him break into a tiny smile. "Yeah, okay. I'll give it a try."

And with that, Party Poison put his arm around Kobra Kid and the two walked back into the diner to restart their careers as musicians.


	9. Bringing the Backbeat Back

"Everything I do is inspired by Gerard. I'm the Robin to his Batman." ~Mikey Way

When the final note of "Black Dragon Fighting Society" crashed out of the amps and the crowd screamed their approval, Mikey panted and waved and then went backstage with the rest of the band. When Ray initiated the MCR tradition of exchanging high-fives with everyone present, Mikey joined in with the rest of his friends. When Gerard complimented him on doing a "fucking awesome job," Mikey thanked him, even though he knew the real compliment was in not having a nervous breakdown over the fact that he'd been without medication for more than two weeks; those Better Living Industry morons (who appeared to think they were the kings of the world just because the desperate citizens of the fire-razed state of California had turned to them for aid in the first brutal months of drought and, after the wars broke out, the rest of the country had submitted to them as well) really did have such a level of control over the pharmaceutical industry that, after their first threats to cut off his supply of mood stabilizers- because he wasn't a "registered citizen" under BLI's rule- had been ignored, he'd gone to the drug store to pick up a prescription and actually been denied. But he'd made it through this show, and many others years before too, so he knew that the whole situation couldn't be as bad as it seemed.

So when the band started to carry their equipment out to the trailer and Mikey followed suit, he was pretty damn shocked as they all stepped right into the waiting group of cops, who snatched their instruments from them and clicked handcuffs onto their wrists.

Kobra Kid walked down the desert road as the sun rose behind him. He wore his sunglasses, though they weren't really necessary so early in the morning, and that, combined with his slicked-back blonde hair, holstered gun at his side, and the I-think-I'm-better-than-everybody attitude that his nonchalant expression exuded, gave him the distinct look of a Wild-West gunslinger on his way to a showdown.

He walked with a clear sense of purpose and direction: he knew where he was going, and he knew exactly what he would do when he got there, and the slight smirk that flashed across his lips was a sure indication that it was going to be nothing good.

Kobra's eyes widened in excitement behind his shades as the sound of motorcycle engines reached his ears. They were not far off, he knew, and sure enough, three Dracs soon sped into view, looking perfectly identical on their polished white motorbikes, with their crisp white jackets, and stupid, supposedly intimidating masks covering their faces. They drove past him, but all three turned their heads a little to glance at him out of their eyeholes as they passed.

Kobra Kid waited as the patrol unit made a neat, precise U-turn without breaking formation and slowed as they neared him. He waited as they turned off their bikes, flicked out the kickstands, and dismounted. He waited as the one in front, clearly their leader, stepped cautiously forward, drawing his gun, and he waited as the other two did the same. Kobra stood there in the sand and awakening sunbeams, the epitome of serenity, as the first Drac called to his companions, "He's a Killjoy! Get him!"

After taking a second to chuckle inwardly at the generic evil-grunt-attempting-to-do-something-important line his entirely unoriginal enemy had chosen to utter, Kobra resisted the urge to shake his head pityingly as the three rushed forward.

Only then did he draw his laser blaster and fire two bursts of energy into the bodies of the two Dracs flanking the unfortunate leader. They collapsed onto the asphalt in pain and surprise; predictably, they hadn't been expecting such a quick reaction, as they thought he was like them, lethally slow and unable to think on his feet.

The remaining Drac appeared to panic at the loss of his fellow attackers, but nonetheless continued the charge, ramming his shoulder into Kobra's chest and sending them both sprawling into the edge of the road. The back of Kobra's head collided painfully with the small lip of asphalt, but he still rolled himself on top of his opponent with relative ease; he'd often been tackled like that, so shrugging it off was simple for him. Kobra pressed his blood-red ray gun into the Drac's temple, allowing himself to feel a brief rush of victory.

He'd often considered saying something, in this breathless, sweat-scented moment when his pulse beat in him like a snare drum and his defeated enemy stared at him with a look of despair, something along the lines of, "You had this coming, you know," or "Ah, at last you know what it's like to fear. And now, you will learn what it is like to die."

But Kobra had never been a man of many words, and so he was glad that aggression didn't require a sonnet. He did smile at the Drac as he pulled the trigger, hoping his enemy would get the gist of his empowering feeling of revenge.

With all the Dracs dispatched, Kobra was free to finish what he came for: quickly and methodically, he reached into each of their front jacket pockets and removed the bottles of prescription pills. But he only tucked one into the safety of his own red sport jacket; one of the others was the wrong dosage (he wasn't looking to poison himself, after all) and the third was the wrong medication entirely. He dropped the two rejects onto the ground, and watched them bounce, clatter, and roll a bit among the dead and dying bodies of their owners.

Kobra Kid swung his leg over one of the discarded motorcycles and sped off into the sunrise.

Mikey walked along behind the guards slowly and warily, looking around at the whitewashed concrete walls of the prison. He exchanged glances with a few other prisoners, who had bruises, cuts, and black eyes and seemed to pity the newcomer. Mikey had the feeling that their jumpsuits were covering the worst of their injuries, and he was struck with fear and apprehension as the guards opened the door to what he gathered was his cell.

He was alone, he noticed. There was only one bed- a small, uncomfortable-looking cot- a sink, and a toilet. There was a tiny, barred window with a view of the prison yard. The guards shoved him in roughly and closed the door with a clang. Then they left, and he sat on the bed to contemplate what was going on and why they were here, and to worry while trying to ward off his encroaching despair before he finally sank into a troubled half-sleep.

The guards brought food the next morning, and it was nasty, of course. About an hour later, they led Mikey out to the prison yard, where he saw the one thing that gave him some comfort: Gerard was out there too.

As he got closer to his brother, though, Mikey noticed a number of cuts and bruises on his face, and that he walked gingerly, almost limping. Gerard gave him a weak smile and asked, "How you holdin' up?"

"Fine," Mikey replied; he was clearly doing better than Gerard. "What happened to you?"

"I look like shit, don't I?" He said with a wince. "The guards think we're in some sort of rebellion movement against them because we play music, so we're like terrorists, apparently. They think that beating us into submission is the best thing to do, so they went at it. I think they cracked one of my ribs." He touched his chest lightly and grimaced. "Frank got it pretty bad too- he's in the cell across from me, and he had a really bloody nose and all kinds of bruises."

"But why didn't they do that to me?" Mikey wondered. "I'm in the same band, so if you're terrorists or whatever, so am I."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Gerard began contemplatively, "but I think they think you're sort of the weakest link. They figure you'll be the most likely to crack and agree to join them because you'll end up valuing your meds more than your friends. And they figure that if they don't torture you, you'll end up going more quietly."

That irritated Mikey- did he really seem that easy to break?- and he spat, "But we're not even rebelling against them! This is ridiculous! How can they do this?"

"I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing," Gerard's battered face was set in determination. "We may not have been against them before, but we sure as hell are now."

An alarm sounded to signal the end of "rec time," and Gerard told him to stay strong before turning away from his brother and heading back to his cell.

Kobra Kid sped past the gas station, and the wind rushing through his hair momentarily took on the smell of premium gasoline before blending back into that of cold sand and warming asphalt. He passed the diner as well, and hoped that the sound of his motorbike didn't make the sleeping Killjoys think that they were being attacked.

He drove through the relatively unremarkable desert, fortunately encountering no Drac patrol units as he crossed into Zone 6 and approached a tiny, run-down building that said "ART" above the door in curly, spray-painted letters. He parked the bike and went in, because he had a friend to visit and a bargain to uphold.

They tried their best to break Mikey, but he was not one to be easily converted, and especially not by people who had given him plenty of reason to resent them. In the hours between lunch and dinner each day, a man came into his cell and talked to him about why he was a terrible person and how his way of life was inherently bad.

That alone wouldn't have been that big of a deal; Mikey was definitely strong enough to resist such blatant lies, no matter how much conviction his interrogator might say them with. But he was also reminded of some of the worst days of his life, and those were blamed on the band. His grandmother had died while they were on tour, so he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. He'd had a breakdown due to stress from another tour and briefly considered suicide.

Naturally, the interrogator left out the other side of the stories: how the band had written a song dedicated to his grandma, and how Gerard and Ray had practically saved his life with a song they'd composed the day he'd snapped. But having such things thrown in his face wasn't easy for Mikey, even though he was determined to maintain a stoic attitude and not let them know how much those memories hurt. To add insult to injury, by the second day they had rearranged his schedule so that his rec time no longer coincided with that of anyone he knew, effectively cutting off what little support system he had.

The emotional torment wasn't the worst part, though: that was the waiting, the wondering. When would they realize that Mikey would be of no use to them? When would they give up and start treating him like the other prisoners? Worst of all were the tiny doubts that crept into his mind after the interrogator left him alone with terrible memories of his failings, or when he tried in vain to drift off to sleep, ending up staring blankly at the equally blank walls. _What if I can't take it? What if they're right, and I am the weakest link? What if they break me, and I betray Gerard and Ray and Frank?_

So Mikey was grimly satisfied when, on the fourth day of his imprisonment, he blandly informed the interrogator that no, he didn't give a damn about his need for medication; yes, he could survive without it; and yes, he would sooner die than submit to the lifestyle the new government was imposing, and the man who had been gazing at him with superiority that bordered on pity stood up in fury at his subject's impenetrable apathy and struck him across the face.

A second later he had flinched back, shocked at what he had done, or maybe…afraid? He looked like he was expecting Mikey to strike him in return. But the reciprocal blow didn't come, because Mikey was too tired to even think of attacking him and inviting further violence or interrogation; he honestly could've gone to sleep right there on the floor with a bloody nose.

"Ha!" the man cried in excitement and relief at his prisoner's inaction. "Well, well. He's not so scary after all." He grinned maliciously.

He and the guards fell on Mikey, punching him and kicking him in the ribs, and by the time they left him with a beaten face, aching body, and a bitter, broken sort of resentful joy, it was the happiest he'd been in three weeks, though tears mixed with the blood on his face. And he felt even stronger when, on his way back in from the next day's rec time, he caught his brother's eye in the second-floor window, received a grin that was half grimace from Gerard, and managed to smile back. He was totally on board with whatever counterstrike his brother was planning.

He would show them what scary meant.

"Hey, Kobra! Long time, no see!" The woman at the counter looked up as he entered, brushing her long, brown hair out of her face.

"Hi, Adrenaline Angel," Kobra replied. He stopped in the middle of the small, dusty room and looked around at the odd collection of items she had assembled. There were all the art supplies that could possibly fit into the floor-to ceiling shelves that lined two of the walls. The other two walls were devoted to musical instruments: there were guitars, tambourines, violins, and a drum set in the corner. More shelves set into the counter displayed records and CDs.

"Wha'cha here for?" Adrenaline Angel asked, stepping out from behind the counter and approaching him. She wore a long, white dress with yellow designs and beads in it that was probably totally impractical in a fight.

"I came to see if you had any bass guitars," Kobra Kid replied, feeling the apprehension he hadn't known was still there drain out of him when an excited smile flashed across her face. He was glad he'd come to see her; she always made him feel comfortable.

"I have just the thing for you!" Adrenaline Angel retrieved a multicolored stepladder from next to the counter and practically ran over to one of the music walls. She climbed up and lifted down a bass covered in, of all things, hundreds of silver sequins.

Kobra arched an eyebrow incredulously as she held it out to him. "It's…sparkly."

"No, it's _shiny_," Angel laughed. "Go on, try it!" She led him over to an amp and adjusted the settings while Kobra slung the strap over his shoulder and wondered if this had been that great of an idea. Was this flashy stringed instrument really worth all the fear and hard work and risk he would have go through?

But then she handed him the end of the amp cable and a pick, and he plugged the bass in and strummed what few chords he could remember. They thrummed out of the amp and reverberated through his chest, and he was absorbed in the beat as he made it up on the spot, playing random, simple rhythms just to hear how they sounded, nodding his head in time with them, and it didn't matter that this was the single worst practice he'd ever done, save when he was just learning to play; all that was important right now was the pick tugging at the strings, and the feeling of the frets under his fingers and the smooth, polished guitar neck under his palm, and that all-encompassing sound pulsing through him like a heartbeat.

The magnificent feeling was still strong as a memory, and so Kobra didn't really notice when he stopped playing, unplugged the bass, and bought it on the spot. He said goodbye to Adrenaline Angel (she wished him luck, and told him to take care of his new instrument) and walked out of the store and got back on his stolen motorcycle and rode home with his guitar strapped across his back, all with the echo of the music in his ears.

Mikey's small victory was what sustained him over the next two days.

Someone new interrogated him, but used the same old you're-a-worthless-failure-but-you-wouldn't-be-if-you-joined-us brainwashing tactics as the last one. He endured the sleepless nights and growing haze of despair that threatened to drown him, fought back the part of him that told him all the things that were said about him were true, that he was worthless and not good enough, would never be good enough, and certainly never as good as his brother. How could he, in all his antisocial, mentally and emotionally and a-hundred-other-ways flawed weakness, ever hope to be on the same level as Gerard, who Mikey was sure had always been the one the crowds came to see: the famous, inspiring frontman. No one cared about the quiet, bespectacled guy in the back, whose voice and music went pathetically unnoticed all the time.

But he knew their revenge would be worth the wait soon, so he hung on.

Mikey was standing near the grey concrete wall in the yard that was just as grey as all the other walls and staring into space when he heard a loud bang and a lot of yelling coming from inside. He saw several shapes fly past the windows, and then the door near him burst open and two people ran over.

One was his brother, which didn't surprise him as much as the other, who looked like he had just escaped from a circus: he was wearing half a T-shirt and a pair of pants with blue polka dots on them, with a black thong on the outside of his pants. He was brandishing a pink gun that shot what appeared to be laser beams, and he fired at the guards stationed around the yard while Gerard ran up to Mikey, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him towards the door. "We're getting outta here!"

Mikey gathered all the energy he could to run through the hallways after his brother. He was worried that they would be recaptured and tortured again, and he didn't know how much more psychological agony he could take, but he was more worried that this would turn out to be a dream: it felt so surreal, he kept thinking he would suddenly wake up and tuck his knees into his chest and close his eyes tightly to hold in the last fleeting remnants of one of the rare good dreams. Sometimes he even thought he could hear strains of one of their songs drifting through the bars: "_Shut your eyes…Kiss me goodbye…and sleep…just sleep_."

And then they were outside again, and the sunlight reflecting off the car windshields pierced his eyes, and Gerard jumped into a light blue van parked directly in front of the prison door. Mikey got in after him, and they slammed the doors shut. The other man- who Mikey would later know as Show Pony and nickname his "apocalypse buddy" when they went on raids to retrieve their stolen instruments- hopped in the front seat and started the engine.

As they peeled out of the parking lot, Gerard talked breathlessly with Ray and Frank, who were in the back seats and didn't look too bad considering what they'd been through. Mikey would've been what passed for content to stare out the window (or was it at the glass in the window?), but Show Pony asked him suddenly about his medication. As he tried to remember how to talk, Gerard answered for him what he took and how much. Show Pony tossed a container of prescription meds over his shoulder and Mikey caught it reflexively before not really reading the label.

Show Pony told him that he was sorry, but he hadn't brought any water for him. Mikey mumbled something about how that was okay, and opened the container. He popped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it using a good amount of spit. It tasted awful, but he could swear, whether it was a placebo effect or simple liberation, that he felt better already.

Kobra Kid walked into the diner quietly, not wanting to wake anyone up. But Party Poison was already awake, and he blinked sleepily at Kobra and said, "Morning."

Kobra smiled in reply, as a thought he'd had a while ago resurfaced, finished and polished and true. His brother had once said that he had wanted to be Batman growing up, because he was the only superhero they knew who didn't actually have powers; he was an ordinary guy who had made himself extraordinary through his wits and bravery. Kobra had always thought that was a bit unfair, because he wanted to be like Batman too. He realized now that he didn't have to be- didn't _want_ to be- the famous one, the one who everyone talked about. He could be like Robin, a bit underrated but never undervalued. Batman needed him, he needed Batman, and it worked.

Kobra Kid set his bass on a stand next to Jet Star and Fun Ghoul's guitars, and decided, when he looked at the tiny beams of light that reflected off every facet of each sequin, that Adrenaline Angel was right: it was shiny, and so was he.

"Hey, Party," Kobra said softly. "I'm back."


	10. Track 5

Motorbabies

n.  
Kids on the run, children of the carburetor. Survivors, with ammunition and a love for speed.

"Shiny, isn't she?" Kobra Kid asked, smiling with pride at his motorcycle.

Fun Ghoul whistled appreciatively. It was a nice-looking sport bike, very sleek and aerodynamic. "You jacked this?"

"Yep," Kobra replied. "Couple days ago. Poor Drac never knew what hit him." He frowned at the vehicle's monochrome body, plain white except for the words "Sniper Cycle" written in cursive on the side; white was such a boring color. "I would give it a new paint job, but that'd ruin the whole plan."

"Of course." Fun Ghoul shifted nervously at Kobra's mention of the plan. He had been eager enough about Dr. Death Defying's convoluted scheme last night, but now he was having doubts. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kobra Kid, but the thought of riding a motorcycle, even if he didn't have to drive, into a potentially deadly laser fight was not his idea of a good time.

Sensing his anxiety, Kobra began his safety instructions. "Okay, so rule number one for not dying on a motorcycle: always wear your gear. Got your helmet?" he asked, tapping his own. They were also decked out in protective leathers in case anything went wrong, but Kobra knew that on such a short ride, the only thing that those would be good for was intensifying the heat from the desert road.

"Yeah," Fun Ghoul held up the helmet he'd borrowed from Jet Star, pitch-black and thankfully well padded.

"'Kay. Rule two: don't get shot."

Fun tried to chuckle at his friend's attempt to ease the tension, but instead he confessed, "I'm more worried about falling off the bike."

"Then I'll show you how to stay on." Kobra Kid pointed out various parts of the vehicle, telling him where to put his feet, where to keep his center of gravity for optimum balance, and so on. "And of course," he concluded, "you'll be holding on to me, so all you really need to keep in mind is, if my velocity starts to make you sweat, just _don't_ let go."

"All right," Fun Ghoul said with a sigh of resignation. "Is that it?"

"Um," Kobra thought about the best way to prepare Fun for eventually riding without holding on to him the whole time. "Try leaning on me for less wind resistance, and press your thighs into mine to keep us stable…" He realized how the last tip could be misinterpreted, and hoped fear would prevent Fun Ghoul from doing the same.

Fun chuckled. "That sounds kinda awkward." He grinned, as apparently not even anxiety could keep his mind out of the gutter.

"Shut up," Kobra snapped. "Do I need to remind you again that we're about to attempt something very dangerous?" He sounded a bit harsher than he'd meant to, but it was necessary to make sure Fun Ghoul wasn't taking their job lightly.

"Sorry. I was only trying to lighten the mood." Fun paled as his fear closed in on him again.

"You didn't." Kobra closed the subject, and, with an attempt to sound more upbeat, said, "Okay, you ready to go?"

"What? Now?" Fun bit his lip in apprehension, his eyes flicking toward the motorbike in fear.

"Yes, now. We don't have all day."

"Just a basic trial run, right?"

"Yeah. Just so you can see what it'll be like. C'mon." Kobra Kid removed his sunglasses and placed them in their protective case that he kept zippered in his jacket. He put on his crash helmet and climbed onto the bike, keeping one foot on the ground for balance.

Fun Ghoul climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around Kobra's midsection a little tighter than necessary due to his growing fright. Kobra stuck the key in the ignition, but then paused, turned slightly, and lifted his visor. "Oh, Fun Ghoul?"

"Yeah?" _Let him have forgotten something_, he thought desperately. Anything to stall for time before-

"Don't scream." Kobra turned back with a smirk in his voice, flipped his visor down, and turned the key in a series of fluid, practiced movements. He then flicked up the kickstand and, ignoring Fun's whimper of protest, revved the throttle.

They sped down Route Guano at only about 30 mph, but Fun Ghoul felt as if they were going at about 700. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as the wind whipped past like hands trying to rip him off the bike and throw him into the hot, unforgiving pavement. _Don't let me die, Kobra_, he thought. _I will kill you if you let me die._

He chuckled at the lack of sense in his mind, and inadvertently opened his eyes just a crack. Through the dark visor of his helmet he could see the road flashing by, notice how individual bumps of asphalt blurred into a motion-sickness-inducing streak of dark grey. Various swear words shot across his mind, and he slammed his eyes shut again as a fresh wave of adrenaline pumped through him like liquid fire.

After several deep, calming breaths over the space of several seconds in which he miraculously remained alive, Fun Ghoul tried opening his eyes again, for longer this time. The road flew past in the same sandpapery strip, grey as gun smoke, but this time, Fun looked up. He stared at the sand and desert plants rushing past, before allowing his eyes to slip closed into the safer-seeming darkness.

The third time, he tried looking up ahead. He could see past Kobra's elbow, into the horizon. Fun Ghoul found himself oddly fascinated by the brilliant blue sky, not at all sharp and murderous like the ground. He admired the glint of midmorning sun off the rear-view mirror, the way his visor made the world a few shades darker and more beige, the steady rumble of the bike's engine beneath him. Kobra Kid started to turn the bike around, and any tingles of fear that might've crept through Fun Ghoul's stomach as they leaned sideways were replaced by a sense of security and trust for his friend, and the smooth flexing of his muscles as he brought the bike back to an upright position and cruised back towards the diner.

"So how was it?" Party Poison asked, as Fun Ghoul tried to stretch out the aching in his thighs.

"Great!" he replied. "Except for this horrible pain in my legs."

"It happens when you sit like that for so long," Kobra told him. "You'll get used to it."

"I guess I'd better," Fun said. "We've got more training to do, don't we?"

"We can do more tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest."

"Yeah, take a nap or something," Party agreed. "You look beat."

Fun Ghoul went to curl up in the back bedroom gratefully. His adrenaline rush was wearing off, but he still thought that this was the most fun he'd had in a long time.

Over the next few weeks, Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul went biking. Fun learned many things during that time, like how to help with turning, how to see through the sweat that trickled into his eyes, and most importantly, how to stay on the vehicle without holding onto Kobra. Once he'd gotten fairly good at that last skill, they practiced having him shoot at targets set up along the side of the road. Fun Ghoul had to admit, once he got past the noise and air resistance, he even enjoyed the wind. It was an exhilarating indicator of how fast they were going, and how dangerous it'd be to crash, which, of course, was something they'd never do, _could_ never do, not with Kobra Kid driving.

As the days went by like the lines on the road, Fun Ghoul found himself almost looking forward to the day the two of them were to ambush the formidable entity known as the Party Bus.

Any Killjoy worth his laser knew about and feared the Party Bus. It was the favored mode of transportation for all Draculoids when they weren't trying to set fire to the Zonerunners' hideouts. After all, why not have huge parties after a long, hard day of killing "vermin?" But the Bus was also a source of extra Dracs should times get tough, and it carried a small arsenal of blaster guns somewhere between the strobe lights and subwoofers. For many Killjoys, the last sound they heard on this Earth was the obnoxious blaring of pop music from its speakers.

"So do we attack at dawn?" Jet Star asked jokingly.

"No, sunset," Party Poison replied with a chuckle. "That's when they'll be least expecting it 'cause the party'll be in full swing."

"Cool," Kobra Kid said.

"Are you guys ready?" Party asked him and Fun Ghoul.

"Totally," Fun said. He was, in fact, supremely confident in this ambush mission. He didn't feel scared at all, just excited.

"So, just to make sure we all know how this is going down, I'll go over the strategy one more time," Party felt like he should be drawing diagrams on a white board to make this more official, but that'd be a waste of time. "First off, me, Jet Star, and Show Pony- " each person nodded in acknowledgement at his name "- will take the Trans-Am. Who wants to drive?"

"Ooh! Me! Me! I wanna drive! Pick me!" Show Pony waved his hand in the air with great enthusiasm.

"Fine," Party said. "You can drive." A fist pump and a cheer from the designated driver met this statement.

"Um, moving on," Party continued. "We'll try to intercept the Bus by coming onto Route Guano from Dogbane Boulevard. If we can, we'll get it to stop, or at least slow down. Meanwhile, Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul will attack from behind and take out the motorcycle escorts, then try to get inside. If we've stopped the Bus, the three of us will come back you up. Got it?"

Kobra nodded.

"Bring it." Fun Ghoul grinned.

"Oh, and Dr. Death Defying," Party Poison turned to the DJ with an almost apologetic look. "We'll need someone to stay here and guard the Girl, and…"

"Of course," Dr. Death replied before Party could finish. He'd gotten used to staying behind years ago, and he figured he could use the time to work on organizing their band's newly recorded songs. "It was my idea anyway."

"All right," Fun Ghoul said. "So we leave for this tonight, then?"

"Yep," Party Poison replied. "We have about four hours to kill, so…go do whatever." A rather unceremonious end to the meeting, he thought, but his friends wandered off, leaving him alone with his anxiety about the attack.

The Party Bus cruised down the highway, flanked by motorcycles whose headlights added another element to the play of strobe lights and shadows inside. Most of the Exterminators were either drunk or getting there, even though technically their contracts discouraged such behavior. They all tried out "chillariffic" dance moves with varying degrees of success, and at least three got hit in the head by another's flailing limbs. In other words, it was business as usual.

The driver of the Bus was one of the few female Exterminators in this patrol unit, and being allowed to drive only heightened her sense of accomplishment. She had just turned back to the road after yelling to a pair of her coworkers to stop fighting about what was the best Lady Gaga song, because everyone knew it was "Just Dance," and glanced up in time to see a car speeding onto Route Guano right in front of her, taking out the motorbike ridden by someone named Kyle. She let out a yelp of surprise and slammed on the brakes while swerving to the side. In retrospect, she realized she'd done both of those things a little too hard, as the bus actually tipped up on its two right wheels for a few terrifying seconds. The car fishtailed to a stop, but the other Exterminators barely seemed to have noticed anything, as they crowded around a guy she thought was called Johan and encouraged him to chug a large quantity of grape Kool-Aid as quickly as possible. "Aw, crap," she sighed, but her mood shifted quickly from fear and annoyance to a shocked excitement as she realized that, not only was the car familiar, but it- or more specifically, its driver- was what she'd been wanting to see in person for the past six years.

Dressed in black, Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid raced down the highway like a predatory bird, leaving only deathly silence and a trail of exhaust in their wake. They had spent the afternoon outfitting the motorcycle with mufflers to make it run still more quietly than its intended use as a Draculoid attack vehicle demanded. They approached the Party Bus convoy, and Fun Ghoul swiftly readied both his and Kobra's laser blasters, switching them to "Silent" mode. Kobra turned off the headlights.

They came up behind the two Dracs on rear-guard duty and Fun leaned back, gripping the bike with his knees, let go of Kobra, and took careful, swift aim at the enemy drivers. He dispatched both Dracs in simultaneous flashes of multicolored light that would fortunately go unnoticed by the Dracs in the bus, surrounded as they were by plenty of light already before returning to his original position. Kobra Kid swerved, easily dodging one of the fallen bikes, and maneuvered around to the left side of the bus. Fun Ghoul leaned out sideways and felt Kobra counter his lean just enough to keep the bike tilted slightly. Fun fired his laser twice, hitting the first guard square in the back and taking out the other one soon after. Thankfully, neither one's bike fell under the wheels of the large, purple vehicle that was their true target.

Kobra Kid braked slightly and coasted to the right in preparation for a similar assault on those guards. Suddenly, the headlights of the Trans-Am came into view, accelerating much too fast in an attempt to cut the bus off. The car's taillights appeared as it outdistanced the other drivers, and then were eclipsed when it crossed sharply in front of the Party Bus. As expected, the bus screeched to a near-halt, turning as it did so. Kobra Kid swerved in the opposite direction as the huge vehicle tilted sideways with a groan like a tired whale and crashed back down onto all four wheels with a shuddering thud. The two enemy bikers tried to turn around, but Fun Ghoul shot the farthest one between the shoulder blades. In a move that was as reckless as it was amazing, Kobra drove up alongside the last cyclist, allowing Fun Ghoul the chance to both clock the Drac in the neck with his gun and kick his bike out from under him. As the final guard (_And what an effective guard he was, _Fun thought sarcastically) fell and skidded several feet down the road, only to get crushed beneath his motorcycle, Kobra Kid applied the brakes before expertly turning his own bike perpendicular to the road and skidding for a few feet. With their remaining momentum negated, Fun Ghoul dismounted and started walking towards the Party Bus while Kobra set up the kickstand, got off, and followed.

All five of the Killjoys tensed, blasters ready, when the driver walked out of the bus. The Drac approached them with its hands up in surrender, and then did something none of them expected: took off its mask. In the neon rainbow of lights from the bus, they could see that it was a female, and that she had long, blonde hair. She smiled at them with undue warmth before calling out, "Stardust!"

Fun Ghoul gaped in surprise, glancing at Party Poison, who looked staggered for a second, but then lowered his gun. The others slowly did the same. Stardust was the Killjoys' code word, meaning "I'm on your side," so that must mean that this Drac was a spy!

The woman lowered her hands and grinned at them. "Hey, Par-tay. How's it goin'?"

The Killjoy in question blinked in confusion behind his multicolored mask. "Um…do I know you?" She did look vaguely familiar…

"Probably not; I tend to stay under the radar," the blonde replied. "I'm posing as a Drac, for some inside information, you know, and you guys are like celebrities in Zone 4; if celebrities had bounties on their heads, of course." She giggled. "They know all about you," she added, and gestured to each Killjoy and proceeded to rattle off things that were frighteningly well-informed. To Fun Ghoul she said, "Why hello, Mr. Obscure Band Reference, resident smoker and bomb-maker. Odd combo." She smirked.

He raised his eyebrows.

She continued. To Jet Star, "You constantly disagree with your friends about the best kind of music, and still compose and play songs on your Gibson SG." Show Pony, "You took your name from the tattoos on your knuckles, and enjoy showing off your roller-skating ability." Kobra Kid, "I don't know about the origin of your name, but I do know that you're bipolar and extremely sensitive about it." As if to verify the statement, Kobra's jaw tightened and he glared from the Bus to the woman and back, as though trying to decide who was most deserving of his wrath. "You also find refried beans disgusting, which is unfortunate as that's about half of what you all eat on a daily basis." She turned back to Party Poison, who looked wary. "See? That's just a little of what the Dracs know."

No one spoke for a few seconds, and then Show Pony announced, "Well, that's kinda freaky. Now please move so we can destroy your bus."

"Wait," Jet Star said, figuring they should at least be polite before blowing things up. "Who are you?"

"To them," she jerked her head in the direction of the raucously dancing coworkers she was deceiving, "I'm Andrea, which isn't even my real name." She chuckled. "But to the Killjoys, I'm DJ Hot Chimp."

"What." Show Pony choked. Everyone stared at him. "Seriously? _The_ Hot Chimp?"

"Yeah." She stared at him as if to say, _Do you know of any other people by that name?_

"Holy cheese-and-crackers! My friend is gonna be so jealous when I tell him I met you! He's like your biggest fan! His name's Dr. Death Defying; have you heard of him?"

"Yes, I have. As a Drac, I'd view him as quite a threat," Hot Chimp replied, clearly flattered. "He's got a lot of experience in battle, and he's a great strategist, even if he doesn't fight himself. And as a DJ, I've heard his show once or twice, and I kinda like it."

"Um, guys?" Party Poison cut in. "We might wanna do something about this bus full of weapons and enemies sometime soon, like before they notice us."

"Right, right." Hot Chimp said. "Okay, so, first thing you should know is that shooting it is a bad idea. It's- "

"Let me guess," Fun Ghoul interjected, to show her that she wasn't the only one with knowledge around here. "It's armor-plated, with laser-repellant metaphosphate glass on the windows, meaning we'd have to actually get inside to do any damage, especially since shooting it is bound to get the Dracs' attention."

"Precisely."

"Well, just charging in seems a little dangerous," Jet Star pointed out. "I mean, they've got laser rifles and all kinds of deadly things, right?"

"We could always just throw some kind of explosive through the door and then run like hell." Kobra Kid suggested, still affixing the vehicle with a cold stare.

"Why not?" Show Pony agreed. All the Killjoys turned to Fun Ghoul expectantly.

He chuckled, enjoying his reputation as a walking armory, and removed a grenade from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Who's going in?"

"I will," Kobra Kid volunteered, as though it were a painfully obvious question. "Always wanted to use a grenade."

"You know how to use one?" Fun asked. "Just pull this pin out the top and throw it, then run. You'll have four or five seconds to get a safe distance away, so try to get behind the Trans-Am to block shrapnel and whatnot. Oh, and don't get shot."

Kobra smirked. "Okay." He took the grenade and crept around the side of the Bus. The others retreated behind a nearby dune on the side of the road. After about ten seconds, they saw him dash out again and dive behind the car. Nothing happened.

_Wait for it,_ Fun Ghoul thought.

"Well, that was anticlima- " Party Poison was cut off as an explosion ripped through the Party Bus, shattering windows and releasing a cloud of smoke into the air, along with the smell of burned-out light bulbs. Jet Star flinched.

"Whoo!" came a yell from behind the Trans-Am. Kobra jumped up, pumping his fist in the air. "That was the best moment of my life!"

"Yeah, it just came at the expense of fifty other lives, no big deal." Jet Star muttered, closing his eyes. He knew that it was a morally sound action, especially in war, to strike against one's enemies while they weren't expecting it if they would do the same, and these Dracs had done so on numerous occasions. But he still didn't like the feeling that settled into his gut as he surveyed the hollowed-out remains of the adversaries' portable dance floor, and the guards sprawled on the asphalt with their fallen motorbikes, whose headlights pierced the night like bulletholes.

It was decided that Hot Chimp was not going to the diner with the rest; she had matters of her own to attend to back at her hideout and a story of daring escape to falsify to the Dracs. She swiped the least beat-up motorcycle from the ground and sped off into the darkness, taking her half-formed thoughts of regret with her.

Party Poison drove the Trans-Am back, with Show Pony riding shotgun and Jet Star half-asleep in the back seat, trying not to think. Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul followed their comrades on the same bike they'd used for the attack, but this time Kobra decided to try something new: after a short discussion with Fun, they drove up alongside the car and waved, then popped a wheelie.

It was the scariest, most exciting thing Fun could ever remember doing; he stood up on the back of the cycle, holding onto his friend for dear life. The wind screamed around them and the engine whistled sharply in protest; Party Poison tried to keep his eyes on the road as he stared at them, slack-jawed; and Fun Ghoul laughed as the now-familiar rush of adrenaline shot through him. Kobra brought the cycle back down with a controlled thump, and he laughed, too.

He wasn't usually the type of person to get all sappy, but at that moment Fun Ghoul would've bet anything he owned that these were the best friends he could ever have, and the greatest day he could ask for.

Under a scattering of stars and sentiment, they went home.


	11. Masta Exploder

"It turns stuff into flying chunks of stuff!" ~Luke Dunphy from _Modern Family_, on why boys like explosions.

"For fuck's sake, don't stick your gun in your waistband! You'll blow your balls off!" Kobra had sighed in exasperation at Fun's bluntness, but Fun knew that it was necessary.

If he was to teach his friend how to make a proper, powerful explosive within a week, they had to establish basic safety rules, and that seemed to be a good opportunity to try and give him a few additional pointers on things like gun safety.

"The best way to deal with the danger of having other weapons around when you're making a bomb is to not have them, period, and that's what we're gonna do. Let's stash all our gear in the diner before we try anything." He was astounded when he saw that Kobra's only weaponry consisted of his laser and a single knife tucked up his pant leg. While he was well aware of his friend's kung fu skills, that was still far fewer arms than Fun would ever carry.

Kobra seemed just as shocked at Fun's weapons; he stood there and stared, increasingly slack-jawed, as Fun removed grenades, knives, razor wire, guns, detonator cables, mines, a retractable sword, brass knuckles, and all manner of other easily-concealed- and some not so-easily-concealed, like his trusty machete- weaponry, which he set in a pile on the table.

Fun grinned at him and led the way outside, to his favorite test site. With a final, disbelieving glance at the ridiculous stack of dangerous stuff, Kobra followed.

He was getting better at this, or so he hoped. Kobra had tried for four days now to cram his brain full of more knowledge than he thought he really needed (why not just tell him, "you have to put in this much of this stuff and a tiny bit of that, light it, and run?") but Fun had insisted he learn exactly what he was doing at all times and why. So Kobra spent every spare minute trying to remember the ideal ratio of saltpeter to sugar, and how to set up an IED using only things he could get from a Drac vending machine.

Kobra was just thinking that he would almost be ready for the surprise when Fun caught his wrist and said, "Whoa. Not so much black powder!"

He couldn't help but dislike having to learn all this from the very beginning, and being reprimanded like he was in grade school made his blood boil- but then, he _had_ asked, Fun was just trying to make sure no one got killed, and that building had been an eyesore since they'd come here.

And all the exasperation in the world would be worth it to see the look on Jet's face…

"Where are we going?"

"Just a bit farther," Fun replied with an eager laugh, as he guided the blindfolded Jet Star over the dunes.

"C'mon, what is it? What'd you get me?"

"You'll see in a minute, Jet."

While he was not particularly materialistic, Jet was hoping it would be something sufficiently shiny to make up for the birthdays he'd had in years past, which had mostly consisted of gunfights and fleeing, with the occasional unwrapped "gifts," things he could've gotten on his own but never wanted, like butterfly knives. He didn't blame his friends for this; it was all they could get him, and at least they acknowledged his growing older- Show Pony had taken to calling it his "celebration of not dying for another year."

Finally, at what felt like the top of the tallest dune ever, Fun pulled off the old rag that served as a makeshift blindfold and said, "Behold!"

Jet blinked in the blinding sun, squinting ahead; he thought he could see the outline of the hulking storage unit in the equally bright sand. "Why are we _here_?" he asked, disappointment and slight annoyance in his voice. Of all the things he'd been expecting for his present, it wasn't this.

The storage unit had once served as precisely that for the Drac headquarters nearby. But when the headquarters was attacked and destroyed in the 2017 Pig Bomb, the storage unit had been sitting like this, empty, without any doors or windows, being completely and utterly useless.

"This is the surprise," Fun told him, sounding far happier than Jet would think about an abandoned warehouse.

He looked back at it incredulously, and Fun called out, "Kobra! We're here!"

"Happy birthday, Jet," the Killjoy in question responded, from a few feet behind them. Fun whirled around, and Kobra grinned. "I snuck up on you." He pressed the button of a garage door opener he was carrying, and Jet quickly understood the nature of their excitement.

He had never really understood what their fascination was with explosions, but as the storage unit erupted into a massive fireball, he realized that this impressively incendiary display was just his friends' way of demonstrating their affection, as loudly, dangerously, and warmly as possible.

And he had to admit, it did look pretty cool.


	12. Track 6

"Not only cripples have a need for crutches, and if they ever take you away from me, I'd fall down and lie still." ~The Boomtown Rats, "Fall Down"

The bus loomed before him, its gargantuan windows like the rainbow-reflecting eyes of a spider about to spring on its prey. The music blasting from every corner of consciousness blocked out thought and made shockwaves in his stomach, and it was all he could do not to tap his foot to the hypnotic pulses. The others were there with blurred faces, watching apparitions, the shadows of the dancers jerking and flickering in the thousands of lights. Outside the behemoth, they were in the darkening world which was ash-grey at its lightest and deeper black than the inside of a nightmare at its darkest.

His companion, the one who wore the yellow of guitar solos in the sand and carried their war wherever he went, held ruin in his palm. It was passed to another, the one whose hair was like sunshine through bulletholes and had angry bloodstains coating his upper body. He slithered into the maw of the bus and came out empty-handed. Death was waiting to strike.

The third companion, who wore the evening sky and could save lives with his honeyed voice, shut his mouth.

The one perceiving turned away, to hide from the coming doom, but found only bleak land, concrete-cold and unforgiving, stretching out before him. He looked to his comrades, only to see that they now wore identical white garments like blank pages, like burial shrouds. Their hair was gone, as were their teeth, and they stared at him with eyes of infinite darkness.

The music was quieter now, pulsing the gentle, slowing heartbeat of someone with poisoned veins, the calm breeze just before the hurricane.

Suddenly, the bus exploded into a bloom of fire, drowning his face in unbearable heat. The force of the blast slammed into him while shrapnel flew in all directions. He saw his companions catch fire, and witnessed tiny shards of metal and glass tear their flesh. He knew, though did not feel, the same to be happening to him, and cried for it to end with the ghost of a voice.

But his hollow screams were swept up in the tide of a hundred others, shrieking and clamoring more loudly than his ears could comprehend. And then grains of glass pierced his eyes, slicing into the burning photograph his vision had become and-

Ray Toro, who called himself Jet Star, did not know himself by either name when he awoke.

He was lying on a cold wooden floor, curled up in a ball with his hands clasped between his knees and his ears echoing with phantom screams. He opened his eyes and was met by a muted, navy-blue and black world of dust and sleep flakes, and it was empty.

He sat up in fear, worried that he was having another nightmare, but then noticed his fellow Killjoys sprawled out along the booths of the diner. That wasn't much comfort, as he knew that the few footsteps and words that separated him from his friends would be like miles of void. Far shorter was the distance between him and the window, with a view of the sky that let in the icy moonlight.

The man stood, and walked cautiously to the panes of glass. He looked up into space and found himself blinded by the beams from the stars. It seemed to him that they were rejecting him, and he glanced down at the smooth surface of the table. His laser blaster sat there as if waiting for him, and he picked it up, clutched it tightly like it was the only anchor in the raging tumult of his mind. His breathing hadn't seemed shallow or quick until it slowed and deepened.

Feeling serenity drip into his blood, he tried to form thoughts. The first one he strung together, like bad-luck beads on a bracelet, was _I'm okay._ And the second, which made his mind shiver with uncomfortable realization, was _No, I'm not._ He sent a question into the depths of his brain: _Why is this haunting me?_

The response was a series of horrible flashes from both the dream and the memory of the real explosion, and he recoiled from them, shifting his attention to the chessboard pattern on the table to occupy his mind. He started to protest that this was the sort of thing that happened every day in a Killjoy's life; why should this one raid be such a heavy burden?

But the overpowering sadness and guilt still weighed him down, in spite of his dissent. It was not just this one attack, he knew, but the mere fact that he spent every day killing or in fear of being killed that hurt the most; this had simply impressed that idea upon him like a brand into his flesh.

He thought of a different way to approach the problem, and asked, _Why is what we did wrong?_ And, before the shrieks came back, he clarified, _They would've done the same to us._

With half-asleep logic, figuring out the answer was like trying to see the bottom of a deep pool when the mud had been swirled around it. Of course, he knew, killing was wrong, and taking an eye for an eye would solve no one's problems. He wished he had seen another way to incapacitate the enemy, anything but massacre. And the air turned colder in his lungs as he was stung with regret. Following that blow came an even harsher one, the awareness that there _was no other way_.

Killing his adversaries was the only surefire way to stay safe.

The shock of this idea rushed over him like a tidal wave, sweeping away his feeble protests. In its wake came another thought, the worst yet: Not even the most awful crime of taking a life would protect him. They were fighting vast multitudes, throngs of enemies, that would overwhelm them despite all their efforts. It was hopeless. They would die, and die with bloodstained hands.

He wanted out. He did not want to live and die like this, but what choice did he have?

His fingers twitched, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. Maybe there was a way out, a third door between murder and death.

_Suicide. _The word like was the glint of sunlight off a knife, morbidly beautiful and hypnotic and oh so lethal…He shivered. What was he thinking? Killing himself would solve nothing and would only bring more pain to his friends. It would be still more bloodguilt on them all.

Well, then, what was he to do? He sighed shakily, and thought again about the lives he had taken. He knew that he was just as responsible for those deaths as Kobra, for while his friend had caused the explosion, he himself had done nothing to prevent it from happening. He could have spoken up, could have suggested that they do…what? There was nothing else to be done! Nothing but obliterate fifty innocent, albeit misguided, but _innocent_, human beings in a ball of fire.

Regret returned, along with sorrow, and both swelled up in his chest and began to push out through his eyes in glassy tears. _Why must life be like this?_ He demanded miserably. Through his blurred vision, he saw the words printed up the barrel of his gun in bold letters, like an answer key on a test: **BEC****_A_****USE I S****_A_****ID SO**. What a stupid, trivial answer to his stupid, answerless question.

With a quiet sob of disgusted helplessness, he set the gun on the table. He wanted to throw the instrument of death on the floor, or better yet, out the window and far away, but that would wake his friends, and they deserved to sleep. He sank onto the floor and cried, feeling utterly alone, trapped at the bottom of a well.

A tapping sound behind him made him jerk around to look over his shoulder, fear's spindly black hands strangling his mind. It was Dr. Death Defying coming over to him. The DJ knelt next to him slowly, like a fisherman settling in for a long wait. "Hey, Jet Star."

"Shit, you scared me," Jet Star (that was his chosen name, stars or not) whispered, inhaling a little relief and company in the form of his friend's sour, sleep-smelling breath.

"Sorry," Dr. Death replied. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You seemed kinda shaken up after the raid." He spoke with calm acceptance, giving Jet the chance to share his sorrow or not, as he wished.

"I'm not okay," Jet stated simply. He shook his head to clear out the painful thoughts before continuing, "I hate killing people, and that was…just awful. There were so many of them, and they didn't see it coming…" He shivered. "I mean, I know they would've attacked us too, but how does that justify murder?" He winced at the word.

Dr. Death sighed. "I don't know. I guess all you can really do after something like that is to tell yourself that you did the best you could, that it was the right thing to do. It hurts, sure, but eventually you come to realize that it was for the greater good, y'know?"

That made sense to Jet, but he couldn't help the slight resentment and anger that crept into a corner of his mind. "How would you know, exactly? Have you ever been through this kind of pain, where you know that your very existence will mean the deaths of hundreds? Have you seen real, living humans get blown apart, just because they think differently than we do, and there's nothing you can do about it?" He was whispering harshly.

The DJ rested his hand on the knee of his injured leg, one of many marks he bore from his own war. "Yes, I have," he replied, and though his voice was calm, he looked away from Jet Star at the floor, staring bitterly into his memories. But he snapped back to the present before Jet could feel too badly about asking such a stupid question. "I've learned from those things, and I know you will too. And one thing I learned is that, yeah, it's sad that we have to kill people, but it's that or let them kill us. Plus, if we don't fight back and they decide not to kill us, we'll be giving up our lives anyway."

Jet knew what he meant: they'd have to go along with the enemy's way of life, which meant that they wouldn't be allowed any sort of individuality. He'd never be able to play his guitar…His eyes flicked over to where his Gibson stood in a dusty shadow, its black polish melding with the darkness of the night. "I don't care." He closed his eyes to block out the image of his instrument, because it barely meant anything to him now. "I just don't want to go through this anymore. I can't stand it."

He looked back at his friend as a sudden realization struck him. "Maybe BLI has a point. Maybe it is better to not have to feel, to suffer like this. The Dracs don't have to regret it when they kill us; they just pop a pill and feel…"

"Happy?" Dr. Death raised an eyebrow. "That's not anything like real happiness. It's all a delusion, and so's their 'perfect life.' Being happy all the time isn't possible; it's total bullshit."

"I don't see what you have against them," Jet snapped, anger flaring again at the DJ's idiotic dismissal of what seemed, suddenly, like a pretty good idea. "They could _fix_ you. But no, you'd rather stay a depressed cripple!" It was the sharpest, cruelest word he could think of to say, and he spat it at Dr. Death like a snake spitting venom. He regretted it instantly, of course, but he couldn't take it back.

Little did Jet Star know that to his target, that was an old word for an old wound. Like a scar or callus that didn't hurt anymore, he'd heard such things too many times to take offense. "There's more than one way to be crippled," Dr. Death replied. After a moment, he said, "I think you should go back to bed, Jet. You'll feel better in the morning."

_The morning_.

Suddenly, that was the greatest thing in existence. The thought of a new day, when Jet could apologize and take a second look at things.

Dr. Death rose, then said with a parting, crooked smile, "Goodnight, apocalypse buddy." And he returned to the back room, leaving Jet lost in bittersweet feelings of strengthened regret and stronger friendship.

Jet Star went back to the spot of floor that was his bed for the night, and fell asleep. Anytime that he awoke with his mind screaming from the pain of memories, he'd think the happiest thoughts he could manage, and find something to hold onto: Dr. Death's words of wisdom, remembering the sound of his guitar (it was kind of nice, after all), the welcoming starlight streaming through the window. And his friends helped him, though not consciously. He would look at them, sleeping peacefully, and notice things like the way the white light glistened on Fun Ghoul's raven-colored hair, or Party Poison's tiny smiles as he dreamed of something nice, or Kobra Kid's weirdly endearing snores. These distractions kept him sane, and because of them, he greeted the sun- had dawn ever been more beautiful?- with a feeling of hope.


	13. Track 6: Demo

"In life, you have two choices: get over it or die with it on your mind." ~Anonymous

The bus loomed before him, its gargantuan windows like the rainbow-reflecting eyes of a spider about to spring on its prey. The music blasting from every corner of consciousness blocked out thought and made shockwaves in his stomach, and it was all he could do to not tap his foot to the hypnotic pulses. The others were there with blurred faces, watching the shadows of the dancers jerk and flicker in the thousands of lights like apparitions. Outside the behemoth, they were in the near-dark world which was grey as ashes at its lightest and deeper black than the inside of a closed chest at its darkest.

His companion, the one who wore yellow the color of guitar solos in the sand and carried their war wherever he went, held death in his palm. It was passed to another, the one with hair like sunlight through bulletholes and angry bloodstains coating his upper body. He slipped into the maw of the bus like a serpent, and came out empty-handed. Death was waiting to strike.

The third companion, who wore the evening sky and could save lives with his honeyed voice, shut his mouth.

The one perceiving turned away, to hide from the coming doom, but found only bleak land, cold and unforgiving like concrete, stretching out before him. He looked to his comrades, only to see that they now wore identical white garments like blank pages. Their hair was gone, as were their teeth, and they stared at him with eyes of infinite darkness.

The music was quieter now, a humming like the gentle, slowing heartbeat of someone with poisoned veins, or the calm breeze just before the hurricane.

Suddenly, the bus exploded into a bloom of fire, heat slicing the air like a knife. The force of the blast slammed into him while shrapnel flew in all directions. He saw his companions catch fire, and witnessed tiny shards of metal and glass tear their flesh. He knew, though did not feel, the same to be happening to him, and cried for it to end with the ghost of a voice.

But his hollow screams were swept up in the tide of a hundred others, shrieking and clamoring more loudly than his ears could comprehend. And then grains of glass pierced his eyes, making holes appear in his vision like a burning photograph and-

Ray Toro, who called himself Jet Star, did not know himself by either name when he awoke.

He was lying on a cold wooden floor, curled up in a ball with his hands clasped between his knees and his ears echoing with phantom screams. He opened his eyes and was met by a muted, navy-blue and black world of dust and sleep flakes, and it was empty.

He sat up in fear, worried that he was having another nightmare, but then noticed his fellow Killjoys sprawled out along the booths of the diner. That wasn't much comfort, as he knew that the few footsteps and vocalizations that separated him from his friends (is that what they were?) would be like miles of void. Far shorter was the distance between him and the window, with a view of the sky that let in the icy moonlight.

The man stood, and walked cautiously to the panes of glass. He looked up into space and found himself blinded by the beams from the stars. It seemed to him that they were rejecting him, and he glanced down at the smooth surface of the table. His laser blaster sat there as if waiting for him, and he picked it up, clutched it tightly like it was the only anchor in the raging tumult of his mind. His breath hadn't seemed shallow or quick until it slowed and deepened.

Feeling serenity drip into his blood, he tried to form thoughts. The first one he strung together, like beads on a bracelet, was _I'm okay._ And the second, which made his mind shiver with uncomfortable realization, was _No, I'm not._ He sent a question into the depths of his brain: _Why is this haunting me?_

His mind responded with horrible flashes from both the dream and the memory of the real explosion, and he recoiled from them, shifting his attention to the checkerboard pattern on the table. He thought of a different way to approach the problem, and asked, _Why is what we did wrong?_ And, before the shrieks came back, he clarified, _They would've done the same to us._

With half-asleep logic, figuring out the answer was like trying to see the bottom of a deep pool when the mud has been swirled around it. Of course, he realized, killing was wrong, and taking an eye for an eye would solve no one's problems. He wished he had seen another way to incapacitate the enemy, anything but massacre. And the air turned even colder in his lungs as he was stung with regret. Following that blow came an even harsher one, the awareness that there _was no other way_.

Killing his adversaries was the only surefire way to stay safe.

The shock of this idea rushed over him like a tidal wave, sweeping away his feeble protests. In its wake came another thought, the worst yet: not even that, the most awful crime of taking a life, would protect him. They were fighting vast multitudes, throngs of enemies, that would overwhelm them despite all their efforts. It was hopeless. They would die, and die with bloodstained hands.

He wanted out. He did not want to live and die this way, but what choice did he have?

His fingers twitched, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. If he couldn't live purely, then he ought to die with as little guilt as possible. Assurance of that intention came in the form of the laser, painted as blue as the sorrowful insight that accompanied it.

The man began to adjust the settings of the gun, emotions thankfully dulled by the methodical task. Highest power setting, to ensure a quick completion of his plan; silent mode, so as to not wake his friends…He stared at his last resort, chuckling darkly at the words written on its barrel, the answer to his unspoken question (_Why is life like this?_): **Because I said so.** A trivial answer to a stupid, answerless question was better than none.

He raised the gun to his temple (_Just one finger movement and he'd have peace_) when a voice spoke quietly from behind him. "You're not gonna kill yourself."

He turned, and saw Dr. Death Defying standing near him, leaning on his cane. "Yes, I am." He countered, and his mind was blissfully clear. It all made sense.

"No, Jet Star," The DJ replied, sounding calm and grounded. "You're gonna go back to bed, and it'll be better in the morning." He stated everything like he knew it for a fact. How wrong he was!

Jet Star-that was his chosen name, stars or not-said, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Dr. Death sighed. "I know it seems bad now, I've been there, but trust me, you'll feel much better if you just give it a day or two to think things through."

He'd done that already! "I know that this is the right choice. It's the only way out. Between murder and death, I found a third door."

"And how is killing yourself any better than killing other people?" Still calm and patient.

"I won't be hurting anyone else," Jet explained. "Rather than be walked on or fight back, I simply remove myself from the equation."

The DJ said, "But you will be hurting others." In response to Jet's confused look (just an outward expression of the tiny, tiny tingle of doubt-not doubt, momentary puzzlement; his mind was made up-he felt), he gestured to the sleeping Killjoys. "They'll all miss you, and so will I."

"You all will see eventually that I was right, and be glad that I'm gone to a more moral place."

"But think of the children!" Dr. Death countered. _What?_ "All the kids in Battery City who need us, need _you_, even if they don't know it."

"It's not my place to decide that one life is more precious than another." Jet said. This was an easy discussion to win; he barely had to think beyond things he'd heard others say. His hands relaxed and he let his arms fall to his sides.

Dr. Death apparently thought that meant he was uncertain about his choice, and pressed on. "It would be worth it, like the sacrifice of one for the sake of many. And anyway the Draculoids barely have lives. They're all pumped full of drugs and slogans."

Many…The multitudes!

Jet Star had found his best argument, the one without a counter. "But we can't defeat them, can we? There are too many of them and too few of us." It was basic math, for crap's sake!

"So, what?" The DJ's words seemed like a stall, but his voice was as steady as ever. "We just give up, then? Don't even try to do anything? Lose all hope?"

"There is no hope!" Jet hissed in annoyance. Couldn't the fool see past his rose-colored glasses long enough to realize that? "They'll kill us, and we'll go down fighting them, with the weight of their deaths on our shoulders!"

"I'd tell you the story of the boy who stuck his thumb in a dam and held back the sea, but you've probably heard it. And it hardly matters, since you don't care to begin with. You'll just give up," _Was that so wrong?_ "abandon your friends," _He'd already dealt with that one; they'd see he was right someday and join him if they were smart,_ "and never play guitar again."

That last actually hit him, though not too hard. To not have his guitar, to never reach that feeling of bliss again…But, he reminded himself, he'd found a different, better sort of bliss, greater than the kind born out of material things.

Even as he thought it, though, he could feel a sense of loss. He would miss his instrument, the way its humming strings resonated through him, how it would sometimes tickle his hand when he moved a finger to an open string, the feel of the neck as his palm glided over it…

He shook his head slightly, to clear the spinning thoughts out, and stared up at the moon. It was full and white and more beautiful than any part of this stupid thing called life had the right to be. Those cursed stars seemed to be smiling at him, welcoming him. _Damn_, Jet Star thought as he took in the night sky. _Why is it so hard to leave this crap?_ To his horror, he felt the pinpricks of tears forming in his eyes.

"It's okay," Dr. Death said gently. "Sadness is a natural thing to feel. Look, if you're going to kill yourself, think of how much you'll be leaving behind."

"I'll miss out on pain," Jet snapped, anger helping him find a new direction. "I won't be haunted by the screams of the dead."

"No," Dr. Death agreed. "You'll be one of them. Is that really any better?"

"Yes, because I won't have to feel sadness anymore, or confusion, or regret, or anything! Maybe BLI's onto something." He realized suddenly.

"What, that drugged happiness is the best way out? You won't get to be yourself then, Jet. You'll be a shell. What's joy worth if you can't feel it as yourself?"

"I don't see why you're against them," Jet snarled, with a glance at the DJ's injured leg. "They could _fix_ you. But no, you'd rather stay a depressed cripple!" It was the harshest word he could think of to say, and he spat it at Dr. Death like a snake spitting venom.

Little did Jet know that to his target, that was an old word for an old wound. Like a scar or callus that didn't hurt anymore, he'd heard such things too many times to take offense. "There's more than one way to be crippled," He replied. "Just like there's more than one way to commit suicide, and if I have anything to say about it, you won't be doing either."

He reached for the gun, and Jet Star, despite his anger, let him take it, out of regret. He was sorry, in some corner of his mind, for what he'd said, and for taking out his anger on his friend (for they were friends). He realized that he was exhausted.

"You can have it back in the morning," Dr. Death told him, "if you don't try to blow your head off." He left, the tapping of his cane fading into the back room.

The morning. Suddenly, that was the greatest thing in existence. The thought of a new day, when he could think of how to apologize, and to take a second look at things.

Jet Star went back to the spot of floor that was his bed for tonight, and fell asleep. Anytime that he awoke, his mind screaming from the pain of memories, he'd think the happiest thoughts he could manage, and take a look around to find something to hold onto: Dr. Death's words of wisdom, remembering the sound of his guitar, the starlight streaming through the window. And his friends helped him, though not consciously. He would look at them, sleeping peacefully, and notice things like the way the white light glistened on Fun Ghoul's raven-colored hair, or Party Poison's tiny smiles as he dreamed of something nice, or Kobra Kid's weirdly endearing snores. These distractions kept him sane, and because of them, he greeted the sun (had dawn ever been more beautiful?) with a feeling of hope.


	14. Track 7

"Never again, and never again. They gave us two shots to the back of the head, and we're all dead now." ~My Chemical Romance, "I Never Told You What I Do for a Living"

On the way back from a trip to the gas station, with various groceries in the backseat, Jet Star and Kobra Kid cruised down Route Guano. Their spoils were mostly beans, as usual, but they had scored some chips, another bottle of lithium for Kobra (apparently their friend had gotten lucky twice in a row) and an assortment of half-rotten-but-edible fruit, thanks to Sweet Revenge's weakness for their music and his willingness to trade for their newest songs, "Vampire Money" and "The Only Hope For Me Is You." They were listening to one of Jet's favorite stations, which played mind-numbingly repetitive love songs that were mushier that their newfound fruit. When the station started on yet another "long set of continuous light rock," Kobra rested his head against the passenger side window, bored out of his mind.

"Your music sucks, man," Kobra had often teased Jet Star about his choices of radio stations, and he hoped he could at least get Jet to smile now. Jet had been kind of depressed recently, so maybe he'd appreciate a little cheering up.

But to Kobra's surprise, Jet didn't give his usual mock scolding about how beautiful music was good for one's soul; instead he frowned at the stereo as though he'd just realized what he was listening to. "You're right."

"I am?" Kobra Kid raised an eyebrow, concealing his surprise behind his sunglasses.

"Yeah. This song does fucking suck," Jet Star snapped, in a casual tone of disgust that Kobra had never heard him use before. "It's all whiny and depressing. We need some heavy metal, dammit." He changed the radio to one of Kobra's stations, which was playing "Burn" by Papa Roach. He started belting out the song, anger plain in his voice.

Kobra was shocked, but he did enjoy the song, so he joined in. They watched all the sand dunes and fragile little plants rush by outside as they bellowed out a song about setting people on fire. It felt strange but good, Kobra decided, to see Jet Star like this, as he couldn't remember a time when his friend had shown real irritation, or any sort of negative emotion, really.

They finished the song by simultaneously screaming, "I wanna watch you burn!" at an unknown enemy, and suddenly they were flung to the side as the car, with a bang and a hiss, lurched right, fishtailing.

"Damn! I think our tire blew out!" Jet Star's voice was startled, but furious.

The car slowed to a halt and the two got out to inspect the damage. Their right front tire was punctured by several thick spikes, and there were more scattered about on the road. Kobra knew it was a speed trap set up by the Draculoids, and sure enough, about ten of them leapt out from behind a high sand dune, lasers blazing with artificial heat.

Jet Star and Kobra Kid whipped out their ray guns and returned fire. Fortunately, the Dracs were notoriously bad shots, so they took out most of them quickly. But then there came the sound of multiple vehicles from up ahead on the highway. A feeling of dread matched only by that of stage fright sank into Kobra's gut as the motorbikes fanned out around them and a black Lamborghini slithered up and stopped by the broken-down Trans-Am. Its passengers got out slowly, like they had all the time in the world.

There were two more Dracs, as if the eight surrounding them on motorcycles and three they hadn't managed to kill in the first assault weren't enough. And emerging from the passenger side, with his ugly little bald head held high, was Korse himself.

"Oh no…" Jet Star whispered, and Kobra wanted to slap him for echoing what he'd been trying not to think.

The two Killjoys gunned down as many Dracs as they could, but one of Korse's escorts shot Jet in the leg with expert precision. Of course those ones could shoot: they were second-in-command of all the Dracs out in the Zones, Kobra realized angrily. The only reason they hadn't just killed them both on the spot was that their leader wanted to be able to gloat over his victory.

_It's not gonna end like this. I'm not going down so easily._

As the ten remaining enemies closed ranks on them, Kobra Kid decided it was time to use his last resort. Throwing down his gun (it was hard to hit anything accurately under this much pressure), he cracked his knuckles and charged at the nearest Drac, shouting a war cry as he went.

The Drac barely had time to say, "What the- " before Kobra punched him in the face, hard. He went down, and Kobra whirled in time to hit another in the stomach. Two more, who stood there in shock at this sudden change of pace, he felled with karate chops upside the head. He then turned to fend off a blow from a third, but gasped as a sudden wave of pain flared in his shoulder. He'd been shot in the back, and the Drac he was facing seized the opportunity to trip him. Kobra happened to fall on the same burn wound, and cried out when the tiny bits of gravel in the road dug into him.

Two of his enemies grabbed him by the arms and pulled him to his feet. He could see Jet Star fighting to keep his laser. Jet lost quickly, thanks to a kick in the ribs, and simply lay there in stunned defeat as the Drac who held his gun pressed a foot on his chest to pin him.

The entire battle had taken less than five minutes.

Korse, who had just stood by and watched smugly the entire time, now came forward and snatched Kobra's gun from the ground. He pointed it at its owner and smirked. Kobra thrashed against his captors, but Korse put a stop to that immediately by punching him in the solar plexus so hard he felt as if he would vomit up a lung. "Now, now," Korse purred. "Can't have you hurting any more people, can we?"

Kobra felt a rage hotter than the sun above them consume him, as his mind filled with thoughts of all the ways he'd kill that arrogant bastard if he had the chance. He gasped for breath, to try to say something defiant, but all he could come up with was a raspy, "Burn in Hell."

His opponent chuckled. "Oh, no, no, no." Korse grinned, and sighed as though disappointed. "Silly Killjoy. Don't you know I'm not going to do that until I know for a fact all of your little friends will be down there waiting for me?" He cocked the gun.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kobra Kid could see Jet Star looking perfectly calm as he mouthed to Kobra the words _see ya._ He smiled as the Drac above him took aim at his face, even though it said in a voice with a half-repressed British accent, "Say goodbye, you foolish rebel."

_What's he so happy about?_ Kobra wondered, desperately wishing for some chance of escape, a cavalry on the horizon. But there was none. He didn't want to die like this! His frightened mind somehow found enough clarity to think of something fairly comforting: _At least I get to die with my friend. That's not so bad._

And even though it was the last thing in the world he felt like doing, Kobra Kid smiled back. He held Jet's gaze until a flash of heat and light seared into his senses…


	15. Ashes to Ashes

_Ashes To Ashes_

"Did you hear the falling bombs? The flames are all long gone but the pain lingers on." ~Pink Floyd, "Goodbye Blue Sky"

Adrenaline Angel usually avoided nostalgia, but after Kobra Kid's eulogy on the radio, nostalgia took matters into its own hands and set itself up in her shop for a solid four hours.

_She'd been wandering around by the only gas station in Zone 5 when a flash of red caught her eye. Since that wasn't the kind of thing a Killjoy saw every day, and she'd wanted to kill some time before heading back to her shop to wipe the sand off all her stringed instruments, Angel had hiked over a nearby dune to check it out._

_ She'd seen this guy, not much older than her, pouring a can of gasoline over a wicked-looking black Gibson bass guitar. He had on a bright red sport jacket, a holster with a red laser gun (apparently his favorite color), skinny jeans, and the kind of sunglasses that gave off a "don't mess with this dude" vibe._

Angel thought of another conversation she'd had with him once, about why he loved his shades so much. It had started out as a joke, but had quickly taken on an element of seriousness when Kobra had replied with, "They're the closest I can get to being invisible." Angel had laughed it off with a quip about super powers (having learned long ago that his affection for his shades was equaled only by his nostalgia for the comic books he'd read as a kid) and pointed out that flying was clearly a better power. This had turned into a spirited debate, and a necessary distraction, because Kobra had never been one to talk about things that made him uncomfortable.

_ She'd gone up behind this mysterious__ new guy who felt the need to torch his perfectly shiny bass and said, "Pity."_

_ He'd jumped and whirled around with his hand on his gun. Her eye-hurtingly colorful tie-dye shirt—her personal favorite kind—had showed that she was clearly a Killjoy, but he hadn't relaxed much. "Who are you?"_

_ She'd beamed at him. "Adrenaline Angel."_

_ "Okay, and why do you care what I do?"_

_ "I guess it's not really my business; I just hate to see a good bass go to waste." Angel had commented wistfully._

_ "You're right; it isn't your business," he'd replied brusquely. "It's a personal thing, and I'd appreciate it if__"_

_ She'd cut him off. "Oh. I'm sorry. Was he a friend of yours?" She'd had to burn a few instruments herself after musicians she'd known had gone off on raids and gotten themselves dusted._

_ Her new friend had blinked, staring off into the middle distance of his thoughts before answering, "You could say that."_

_ Though she'd known then that he was hiding something, _(and later found out just how right she was,)_ Angel had frowned sympathetically and said, "Well, I guess you kinda have to torch it, then. It's a shame. I was going to ask if I could have it for my store__I run a music store in Zone 6."_

_ He'd nodded, not particularly interested._

_ "But I suppose you could always come check it out if you decide you want a bass of your own," she'd added hopefully._

_ "Uh, sure," he'd replied, and she had hoped that he wasn't just saying that to get her to leave._

_ "'Kay, cool." Angel had smiled once more, turned to walk away, and then stopped and looked back. "Wait, I didn't get your name."_

_ "I'm Kobra Kid."_ At least that was how she knew him for the few months he spent idly wandering her shop, until she'd gotten his trust a little more and he'd finally told her enough of his Killjoy origin story that she understood why he couldn't keep his old bass.

_ "That's a shiny name," she'd said with a grin. "Good luck, Kobra Kid. Keep running."_

_ "You too," he'd said, and she'd waved back at him before she left for real._

_And Angel had walked off, wincing at the sounds of snapping strings as Mikey's guitar burned into nothing more than a little extra desert-dust._

She almost wished he'd kept it so she'd have something to get rid of other than the hours she'd already spent reminiscing about one of her only friends.

Then she remembered that he'd had friends, too, and went off to go find them.


	16. Tracks 8 and 9

"We all wanna party when the funeral ends, and we all get together when we bury our friends." ~My Chemical Romance, "Kill All Your Friends"

Party Poison and Fun Ghoul sat across from one another at a table in the diner, absorbed in the tension and anxiety that choked the room like a blanket of nerve gas. Party sat rigidly with his arms folded in front of him, glaring stonily out the window at the growing darkness. Fun fiddled with a particularly interesting loose thread on his glove and tried to think of something to say to break the silence they'd lapsed into after running out of ideas about what had happened to Jet Star and Kobra Kid. But there was really nothing he could say, and so they sat, waiting, until-

"Show Pony!" Party Poison jumped up as the Killjoy in question entered on roller skates. "What'd you find out? What's going on? _Where are they?_"

"In case anyone cares," Show Pony removed his helmet and dodged the questions, his voice lacking its usual teasing edge, "Hot Chimp gave me a nice, finished copy of 'Death Before Disco.'" He handed a record to Dr. Death Defying, who was waiting to hear the news while broadcasting some "oldies" song from 2005. "She had to dig it out of boxes of old CD's and transfer it to vinyl."

Dr. Death grinned. "Shiny! Tell her I said thank- "

Fun Ghoul cut him off sharply, asking Show Pony, "What did she say?"

He looked around at them for a second, biting his lip. Then he said, "Well, she told me that BLI had just sent word of the extermination of two notorious terrorists over on Route Guano. The Dracs killed them, took the bodies as evidence, and stole their Trans-Am. BLI calls it a 'great triumph' and plans to hold a celebration." His voice broke on the last word, and he sat down heavily in a booth. In a strained whisper, Show Pony confirmed completely everyone's worst fear: "Jet Star and Kobra Kid were dusted."

The silence that followed this statement was even colder than the one preceding it. Party Poison spoke after a few seconds, his voice emotionless except for a hint of bitterness. "Dr. Death Defying, tell all your listeners about this as soon as you can. Don't make too big a deal out of it, but make sure everyone knows it's definitely not a cause for a goddamn celebration. Fun Ghoul, go break the news to the Girl. Show Pony, tell me everything you know about this party. When is it? Where is it? How many Dracs are coming?" No one moved, still frozen in shock, so Party snapped, "Now!"

They followed his orders reluctantly: Fun Ghoul vanished to the back room, Dr. Death turned back to his desk, and Show Pony moved into the seat across from Party Poison and started talking. Under Show Pony's strangled repetition of facts, Party caught snatches of Dr. Death's announcement: "…a clap with an Exterminator…" "…dusted out on Route Guano…" "…keep your gun close, and die with your mask on…"

By the time Show Pony had finished, and Dr. Death Defying was playing the new copy of the old "Death Before Disco," and Fun Ghoul had returned with the Girl sobbing into his shoulder, Party Poison had come up with a plan.

Fun Ghoul leaned his head against the window of Dr. Death's van, staring out at the passing sand in a haze of exhaustion. He had gotten approximately three hours of sleep the previous night, after completing what was, according to Party Poison, "the most important deadly weapon" Fun would ever make. Add to that the fact that what little sleep he had managed to snag was frequently interrupted by nightmares of his friends dying that made him jolt awake in a cold sweat, and it was remarkable that he was still awake at all. But he had felt compelled to keep his heavy eyelids open all day, because he was worried about Party Poison.

His friend had stayed up for as long as Fun Ghoul had, checking and rechecking his plans for the attack that was now only a half-hour and several more miles away. Party had told them all that this raid would need to be executed perfectly if everyone was to remain "kickin' and breathin'" by the end of the night. He then informed them calmly that Show Pony would drive them there, drop them off, and leave to guard Dr. Death Defying and the Girl, back at the diner. Party and Fun Ghoul would be carrying out the rest, and most dangerous part, of the raid alone.

Naturally, they had not reacted well. Fun was not averse to the idea of having a chance for vengeance on the Draculoids, but even so, it was foolish to try and take on the hundred or so of them that would be at the party with only two people. He had pointed this out to Party, who replied offhandedly with the fact that, firstly, they would also have Hot Chimp, provided that she agreed to reveal her true alliance if given the guarantee that none of the Dracs would be left to tell of her traitorism. And second, Fun Ghoul was not even allowed inside. He was to retrieve the Trans-Am and meet Party Poison out front.

They had all started talking at once, each with similar accusations of Party's near-suicidal lack of caution. Fun remembered Dr. Death having said something like, "I told my listeners to die with their masks on _if they had to__-_and you don't!" Party had waited for everyone to run out of objections before telling them all firmly that this was the most logical way to do things if they wanted to stay alive, as too many Killjoys entering a building would be far too obvious and could undermine the plan, and besides, if anything went wrong- "Which it _won't_," he'd said with utmost conviction- he'd be the only one to pay for it. He would ensure that Hot Chimp was safely out of the building, and then he'd simply have to hold off the Dracs until the detonation…

"Absolutely not!" Fun Ghoul had snapped. He would sooner die than be the one to leave his friend behind- and certainly not like _that_. If Party wanted to put his own life at stake, fine. But Fun was definitely not going to kill him off! It was absurd!

Party Poison had sighed, said "I knew this would be difficult," and proceeded to detail all the reasons that his utterly irrational sacrifice was, in fact, best for everyone, since then only one more Killjoy would need to die to obtain revenge. He was completely willing to surrender his own life, as long as the rest of them were okay. "But again," he reminded them, as the Girl was tearing up once more, "That's just the last resort. If there are any other options- _besides_ you guys coming in with me, and especially not you, Fun Ghoul," he snapped, as Fun opened his mouth to protest that he'd come in anyway and Party couldn't stop him. "You're too valuable; the whole thing would be pointless if our detonator was taken out. As I was saying, if there are any other options, I'd be happy to consider them."

No one spoke for a moment, as it was clear to them that Party was certainly not in the mood to consider other options; he'd made up his mind, and unfortunately, his final decision was a terrible one. Show Pony finally spoke, "What about just blowing the place up from outside? Don't even go in and risk it, just do what we did with the Bus."

Party Poison had shaken his head, as they had all known he would. "No. That would work fine if it was just a simple raid, but this is much more than that. This is our only chance to avenge Jet and Kobra's murders. I have to go in there and send BLI the message that if you hurt any of us Killjoys, you will pay. Even if I have to die too."  
They had given up after that; what could they do to change their leader's mind, short of tying him to the bed? They had done what Party asked after that: Fun Ghoul had made the most dangerous explosives he could using their limited resources, and Show Pony had delivered them to Hot Chimp. He had brought back the somewhat comforting message that she would be helping Party Poison in the upcoming battle; she, too, was not going to let him go it alone if there was anything she could do. Unlike the others, though, she could make sure that Party got out alive, and there was no doubt that she would.

Fun Ghoul returned his mind slowly to the present, noting that they had pulled up in front of the gas station. Party hopped out of the van, saying something about using the bathroom, and, more importantly, confirming to Sweet Revenge the deaths of Jet Star and Kobra Kid and informing him of Party's plan of attack. Show Pony and Fun Ghoul both stayed behind; the former didn't want to have yet another reminder of the fact that his friends were dead, the latter was simply too tired to waste time and energy on stupid things like moving right then, and both had gone to the bathroom before they left anyway.

Fun passed the time while waiting for Party to return by thinking about a fact his sleep-deprived brain had conjured up: He'd heard once, that when people were killed, they involuntarily relaxed all their organs, including their bowels. In other words, when you died, you also crapped yourself. Maybe Party Poison was preparing to die with as much dignity as he could.

It really wasn't funny, but Fun gave a couple half-hearted chuckles anyway. It was certainly a more entertaining thought than, _What if he is planning to die?_, which slipped into his mind as Party exited the gas station with a final wave to Sweet Revenge, who was standing in the doorway and staring after him with a look of despair and horror on his face. Had Party Poison said his goodbyes to Sweet Revenge, or was the latter just upset about having to face the news he'd heard last night, over the radio, in the light of day that made it impossible to deny?

Party got back into the passenger seat of the van and they drove off, Fun Ghoul looking back at the gas station and feeling inexplicably sad, like it was the last time he'd ever see it. He shook his head slightly and told himself that he would be back there soon; he'd never told Sweet Revenge how much he valued seeing him, knowing that there was someone else on their side and not just the eight (or now, six) of them against the brainwashed, radiation-blasted remnants of the world.

Besides, Sweet Revenge had promised to get him an extra pack of those totally shiny cherry-flavored Marlboros, so if Fun had anything to say about it, he'd be back.

The rest of the drive dragged on slowly, and Fun Ghoul suspected that Show Pony was taking as long as he could, as he was obviously not looking forward to leaving the two of them facing a hundred enemies by themselves. A nondescript white car passed them on the road, and they trundled along behind it, hoping that the Dracs inside were too busy to care that there were Killjoys after them. Apparently they were, or perhaps it played off of the new fashionable thing, to come to parties dressed as terrorists- Sweet Revenge had once mentioned that he'd heard of the practice, and they were hoping that'd it'd work to their full advantage now, as they hadn't had time to get any disguises.

But finally, the van pulled up about three hundred yards away from the building that was to hold the celebration. It was a small, windowless concrete structure with a parking lot around back, the kind of bland, unassuming building that no one really noticed. It had a pair of glass double doors in the exact center of its front face, with a small sign fixed in the wall next to them that said "Outpost 9." Overall, it seemed to be the least likely place for a victory celebration since a legal firm.

Party Poison turned to Show Pony with an uncertain look on his face, clearly about to ask what Fun Ghoul was thinking: _Are you sure this is the right place?_ But Show Pony answered the unspoken question by pointing across the road, into the parking lot and exclaiming, "See! There's your Dracs!"

Fun Ghoul could see several of the people in question getting out of the white car they'd been following, as it had just pulled up behind the outpost. They glanced at one another, adjusting their masks and crisp, white shirts, before they turned and walked around the building and through the double doors.

"All right," Party Poison said evenly. "You both know what to do. Show Pony, I'll see you later, I hope." He smiled, and the young man grinned feebly back. Party turned to address Fun Ghoul. "You know the drill, right?" He handed Fun a cell phone. "If I'm not back in half an hour, make the call."

Fun Ghoul pocketed the phone and nodded, with a sigh. There was no way he was going to agree to that, but appearing to go along with it was better than wasting the little time they had with another argument.

Party Poison climbed out of the van and Fun followed, trying his best to ignore the fact that he was no longer tired- on the contrary, he was shaking with nervous energy and worry twisted in the pit of his stomach like a snake. "Well, this is it," Party said flatly, as the van made a careful U-turn around them and sped back down Route Guano. "Good luck."

"See ya," Fun Ghoul replied. There was a short, awkward pause during which Fun desperately hoped his friend would change his mind, but then Party turned and started walking casually over to the front entrance, pulling his mask down over his eyes as he went.

Fun Ghoul blinked hard and inhaled the dusty air deeply, trying to focus. He pulled out his laser and made sure it was set to both "Silent" and "Kill," and made his way around the building, close to the wall. He peered into the parking lot and, to his dismay, saw several Dracs standing guard. Three of them were gathered around one who sat as though enthroned on the hood of a beat-up, graffiti-covered car- which was, of course, the stolen Trans-Am. The one on the hood was telling his eagerly listening comrades about how he had single-handedly defeated one of the "evildoers, that 'Jet Star' one with the stupid hair."

"And then, of course, he pulled a grenade launcher on me," the Drac was saying in a voice with a tiny trace of a British accent, twirling a gun that Fun Ghoul could see was painted midnight blue. Fun took a second to hope he accidentally shot himself in the face. "I was almost blown to bits. But I beat the fool in the end, you know. Some of his hair got in his eyes so he couldn't see, and I seized the opportunity and shot him in the head." The Dracs applauded, cheering for his bravery.

Fun Ghoul shook his head in exasperation at the blatant falsifying that the Drac was doing. He'd known they were prone to overemphasizing their victories, but this was going too far.

A jolt of rage surged through him, washing out any lingering exhaustion, as he realized the truth of his words: this was going far beyond simple exaggeration; it was shaming Jet's memory and making him out to be a cold-blooded killer, the one thing they had counted on him not to be. And that Drac was sitting there casually as he told these lies, on the stolen car, _holding Jet's gun_!

With a roar of fury louder than any he'd known he was capable of, Fun Ghoul leapt out from behind the wall and started shooting at the Dracs gathered around the Trans-Am. The three of them fell, looking shocked, before they even had the chance to look around. Fun turned and quickly blasted the guard stationed at the entrance to the parking lot.

He heard a loud _tsow_ sound and instinctively jerked backwards, just in time to avoid a laser blast that could've killed him, but instead flashed past his nose in a burst of blinding white light. He whirled, gun extended, toward yet another guard and fired before he had really focused. But he still hit the Drac in the arm, making him falter and miss his second shot, which struck the wall on Fun's right and left a charred, black burn mark. Fun smirked at his opponent before taking more careful aim and creating a similar lethal mark on his adversary's chest. The Drac crumpled to the pavement.

Now Fun was alone with the Drac who had killed Jet Star. That was just the way Fun wanted it. But he was quickly forced to duck behind a parked car to avoid the surprisingly accurate lasers his adversary was shooting at him desperately. Fun crouched with his back pressed against the car and switched the setting on his gun from "Kill" to "Stun." He waited until the Drac stopped shooting for a second to see if Fun was still there, and then he whipped around and fired over the hood of the car, hitting the Drac in the stomach. His opponent keeled over in pain, which was exactly what Fun had planned.

He slipped the gun back in its holster and stood up, brushing dust off his hands. He sauntered over to the Trans-Am, stepping over the bodies as he went, and looked down at the wounded Drac, who tried to raise Jet's gun. But Fun couldn't have that, and felt another rush of anger as he pinned the Drac's arm to the hood of the car and plucked the gun from his hand. He shoved it in his other holster (the handgun that he normally kept there was back at the diner; it would make too much noise for his sneak attack) before turning back to the struggling Drac.

Fun placed one hand on either of his enemy's shoulders and pushed him back onto the hood of the car. Glaring straight into the eyeholes on the Drac's mask, Fun Ghoul snarled, "Jet Star was the only one who kept our violence in check. Without him, we would've ended up worse than the terrorists you say we are. And now that he's gone, you've just brought hell upon all your little brainwashed, fucked-up friends." He wrapped his hands around his opponent's throat. "But I'll start with you."

Fun Ghoul wrenched the Drac up into a sitting position before gripping his enemy's jaw with one hand and the back of his hair with the other. He gave a sudden, sharp twist and to his pleasant surprise, heard the Drac's neck break. He really hadn't expected that move to work, as he was simply imitating what he'd seen in action movies, but his adversary went limp and Fun dropped him to the ground. He stepped over him and went to get in the Trans-Am, but realized it was locked, which forced him to dig through the still-breathing Drac's pockets for the keys. As Fun Ghoul settled into the driver's seat of the car that was rightfully his own, he glanced around the parking lot once more.

Bodies lay sprawled on the dusty ground, two of them right in the path of the car's tires. _Should I move them?_ Fun wondered, before recalling the fact that the rest of the Dracs inside the building had actually taken Jet Star and Kobra Kid's bodies and would, he had heard, be showing pictures of their corpses like trophies. _Nah,_ he answered himself with an attempt at a cocky smile, and started the car.

His smirk turned instantly to a grimace when the sound of bones snapping reached his ears. He wanted to sing something in his head to distract himself, but his mind kept stubbornly conjuring up images of the last Drac's terrified brown eyes. He drove out of the lot and pulled up in front of Outpost 9 to wait for Party Poison.

There, Fun Ghoul shut off the car, leaned back against the seat, lit a cigarette, and, as all his righteous battle-rage and adrenaline drained out of him and left him half-asleep once more, simply tried very hard not to think.

Party Poison entered Outpost 9 cautiously, half expecting to find not a celebration but a shootout waiting for him. But he was all right on that front for now; the party was in full swing, and the strobe-lit dance floor was swarming with Dracs who were more than happy to relax, completely unaware of the danger the new arrival posed.

"Hi," said an amused voice nearby, making Party jump. He turned to see a Drac leaning against the wall by the door, his face hidden in shadow. Party realized, with an awkward twinge that he somehow still felt in spite of his nerves, that no one else at the party was dressed up like a Killjoy. _Of course not,_ he thought, berating himself for this lack of foresight. _It's an anti-Killjoy party, not the usual crazy rave. _

Party rested his hand on the gun at his side and replied, "Hello."

The Drac continued to grin at him; he could at least make out his teeth flashing in the strobe lights, if nothing else of his face. "Nice outfit." Party wasn't sure whether to be worried that this Drac possibly recognized him as the real thing and was just playing it cool before he attacked, or to mimic his casual attitude and maybe slip away with nothing more than a couple weird glances.

His dilemma was cut short, thankfully, when Hot Chimp showed up next to him and said in irritated tones, "There you are! It's about time you got here; I was afraid I'd have to host this whole party without you!"

She went on to introduce him, under the pseudonym Michael, to the Drac, whose name was Leonard. She also helped vouch for Party's outfit: "He decided to have his own little costume party, and why not?" But she looked lasers at him out of the corner of her eye, plainly meaning, _You couldn't have been a little more inconspicuous?_

Leonard chuckled. "I like it. It's very ironic. I mean, it's not all that likely that a Killjoy- " he winced at the word, "- would turn up here, right?"

Party Poison checked his mocking laugh at the last minute, instead listening as Hot Chimp giggled in such a way that she very nearly sounded convincing to Party himself, before saying, "Let's hope not. On the subject of parties, Michael, you've got your own to host with me. But since you got here late, I'll just let you do some of it yourself." In response to his subtle look of fear- that meant _I have no idea what the hell I'm doing!__-_she said, "I've got it set up already: You'll find everything you need on my laptop." She winked at him and turned to Leonard, who stayed shrouded in shadows in true "cool-guy" fashion, and the two of them began a lively conversation about how the celebration was going, leaving Party to slink off around the concrete on the outer edge of the dance floor in search of the equipment.

It wasn't that hard to find; it was directly across from the main entrance, next to an emergency fire exit. There was a small table with two folding chairs behind it, and he settled into one of them to survey the apparatus he was to use. The laptop sat next to a microphone and a small projector, both of which were off.

He turned his attention to the laptop, where he saw one of the few things that could've made him feel less nervous: iTunes, a program he actually knew how to use. With a sigh of relief, as he'd been expecting something immensely complicated or a program that required ID, he scrolled through the list of songs. When the current one- some new, irritating pop song about dance parties- mercifully ended, Party selected an older, irritating pop song about dance parties: "Blow" by Ke$ha. It was worse than he remembered, but he tried not to laugh too much about the truth behind the words; how this place _was_ about to blow. In twenty minutes, if Fun Ghoul kept his word, the three of them would be as far from the outpost as they could get while still being able to see the explosion; Party Poison, at least, didn't want to go to all this trouble and not even get to witness the destruction they'd cause.

Hot Chimp returned in the middle of the song, staring at him questioningly. "Ke$ha? Really?" she said, disgust plain on her face.

"Hey, at least the lyrics make sense," he pointed out, and she laughed. (She sounded and looked so familiar; he could almost feel the memories just out of reach at the back of his mind: He knew that he knew her from somewhere, but _where_?) "And you did leave me to host this thing on my own, so you're not allowed to complain about my choice of music."

She smirked at him, pulling off her gloves as she sat down, and moved the laptop over so it rested between them. That was when Party noticed a thin, gold band on her third finger, illuminated by the glow of the monitor and the colorful lights on the dance floor. How many Dracs wore jewelry, especially something with as much emotional value as a wedding ring?

That thought in his head combined with her voice in his ears and reached back through over a decade, finally coming up with the memory he needed: twelve years ago, when he'd met his fiancée backstage at a concert and slipped a ring on her finger- _this_ ring.

Party looked up at Hot Chimp, into her face, and wondered how he could've failed to recognize his own wife. She had aged, of course, and six years in the desert spent falsifying every detail of her existence to the Dracs had given her a beaten, weary look. But even with her new, bleached-blonde hair and a pair of made-up names, she was still Lindsey Way.

"Sorry I left you," she was saying, and he tried to concentrate as his mind swirled with the epiphany. "But I had to trick Leonard into leaving his post so I could seal the front doors shut. He decided to go outside for a smoke, so I ended up locking him out." She giggled. "We can run out the back when the time comes."

Party Poison nodded, not really listening. "Blow" ended shortly after, and Lindsey/Hot Chimp bent over the laptop. She chose "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People, clearly continuing their unspoken theme of not-so-subtly violent dance music.

They spent the next ten minutes chatting about the next part of Party Poison's plan; Hot Chimp smiled when he informed her that he had forbidden any of the other Killjoys to come in. "You're so reckless," she chuckled, not bothering to chastise him; it was too late for that now, anyway. She informed him of the fact that there were several Dracs who had been appointed "designated drivers" and who were also on guard duty. "But it shouldn't be too hard to get out before they notice us. I mean, we can just sneak out the fire exit, right?"

"Um…" He wasn't really sure, now, that this was such a good plan. "Well, I kind of wanted to make a short little speech about how they killed my friends and I came back for vengeance, and this is what happens when you cross us, and all that. But we could just leave. I mean, it's not like they'll know the difference, 'cause they'll be dead and all." As he said it, Party knew that he'd rather do that instead of the firefight he'd had in mind. Why on Earth would he want to take such a foolish risk? He still hadn't gotten the nerve to tell Hot Chimp that he knew who she was; it was definitely not the right time for such a confession, but he also didn't want to die having just found his wife after so long. And getting Hot Chimp killed to save his life was out of the question.

"I don't know," she began thoughtfully. "Maybe a speech wouldn't be a bad idea. At least then they'll know what's going on, rather than just getting blown up for no reason." She grinned. "And I think I'd like to tell them that I was never a Drac to begin with."

"Okay," Party agreed, feeling glad that he had come up with something to say to his targets ahead of time.

"So," Hot Chimp glanced at the clock. "We've got about five minutes before the detonation. We should probably break the news now."

She switched on the microphone as the last song, "Just Dance," ended and announced to the room in a conversational manner, "Hey everyone, it's Andrea. I hope you've been enjoying this party so far; I know I have!" She shot a glance at Party and rolled her eyes in disgust at the lies she would soon rid herself of. "So we have one last song for you all, but before that, we each wanna say something to everybody. I'll start with this: I hate BLI. Always have. In fact, I've secretly been a Killjoy the whole time!" She finished her proclamation by pulling out her laser gun and holding it, relaxed, at her side.

Party Poison looked around and saw that all the Dracs were laughing. He had barely wondered why before his mind came up with the obvious answer: they all thought Hot Chimp was joking. So he leaned in to the microphone to set them straight.

"No, this is not some kind of elaborate prank. Yes, there really are Killjoys here, and I'm one of them." He pulled out his gun. "Also, we've planted several explosive devices around this outpost- " He glanced at his wife as if to say, _You did that, right?_ and she nodded, "- which will detonate in about four minutes. In other words, you're all gonna die. I hope you know that you're getting exactly what you deserve, because you were the ones, or some of you at least, who helped dust- that is, murder- both my brother and my friend. Let this be a lesson to you motherfuckers: This is what we do to people who try to tear us apart. Unfortunately, we don't go down quite so easily. That is all," he concluded, waiting to see how the Dracs would react to this.

The room had gone silent as the eyes of a hundred enemies widened in fear. Apparently, they believed the announcements now. There were a few seconds of tension during which no one moved, then pandemonium erupted.

The vast majority of the partygoers were trying to get to the doors, which, thanks to Hot Chimp, no longer worked. But about twenty Dracs were approaching their table, some from the corners of the outpost, a few from the table of refreshments they'd been milling around, and one fought his way through the crowd around the doors. Party brandished his laser at the closest guard, but Hot Chimp was clicking something on her computer.

"Battle music," she explained, returning to his side with an excited smile. The speakers started blasting "Death Before Disco" (it took him a second to recognize it, as there was some lady speaking in Japanese in the intro; he was sure that hadn't been in the original) and the two of them, fighting back-to-back, blasted laser beams at the guards foolish enough to try and stop them.

The battle didn't last as long as he'd expected, however. After dodging a few shots and firing a few of his own, Party felt a brief shiver of fear when he realized Hot Chimp was no longer behind him, but that was quelled as the fire exit opened and he turned to see her holding the door and looking expectantly at him. He ran out and she followed, closing the door on the guards before tweaking a setting on her gun and reaching up to shoot the hinges. Party Poison watched, not sure of what she was up to, but as she knelt by the bottom hinges, he saw that the ones on top had been melted and were quickly solidifying into a twisted, useless hunk of smoldering metal.

Hot Chimp stood and turned to the parking lot, only to stop and look, shocked, at the scene before her. "What happened here?"

Party glanced around and saw one of the most gruesome battlefields he'd ever laid eyes on: the scorched bodies of six Dracs lay around the lot, with four of them grouped close together in front of an empty parking space. Two of those were crushed and bleeding, and one's neck was bent at an unnatural angle. Party shook his head, smiling for some reason he did not understand. "Fun Ghoul happened."

Hot Chimp skirted the parking lot casually but quickly, and pulled a set of keys from her pocket. She snatched a helmet off a Drac motorbike, and Party was struck with a sudden sense of sadness as he watched her mount the bike and prepare to leave. He couldn't just let her go away; couldn't let himself lose her again. So he walked to the end of the nearest parking space, directly across from her, and called, "Lindsey! I love you!"

She stared at him blankly, or at least, he assumed it was a blank stare; he couldn't see through the visor on her helmet. Then his wife started the bike, revved the engine, and sped out without looking back, leaving Party Poison standing in a cloud of dust and loneliness, gazing after her.

Fun Ghoul twitched and sat up straighter when Party Poison walked around the outpost and approached the Trans-Am slowly. For the previous half hour, he had been waiting in a nervous, tired haze, which was broken only by a few adrenaline-charged seconds when a Drac had sped past the car on a motorcycle and he had debated whether to attack it, but it hadn't seemed hostile and in the time it took him to consider this, the Drac was gone in a rush of engine noise. He'd seen Hot Chimp leaving about half a minute ago, and figured that Party couldn't be far behind. Something like relief worked its way into Fun's mind as his friend climbed in the passenger side of the car, slumping back on the seat in weariness. Fun started the car but only drove a few hundred yards from Outpost 9 before he stopped and the two got back out with the car idling between them. They could still faintly hear the music emanating from the building.

"Would you like to do the honors?" Fun asked, removing the cell phone from a pocket. He sincerely hoped that Party would say yes; while he looked forward to seeing the explosive power of the bombs he had worked so hard on, he wasn't sure how many more deaths he wanted to cause. Surely the bodies he'd left behind and the dried blood on the wheels of the car were enough for one night?

Fun chucked the phone over the roof, and Party caught it easily. "All right," he said. But he appeared to hesitate, cradling the phone gently as though it were a deadly weapon in and of itself; a second later, Fun realized he was listening to the music. Party timed it carefully, pressing the "Send" key right on the last note of the song.

The effect was, naturally, positively lethal. There was an audible sound of several detonations in rapid succession, and then the doors were blown off either side of the building along with bursts of fire. The hollow shell of a structure trembled for a few seconds before the entire roof collapsed inwards, dragging part of the walls with it. They landed in a heap of rubble, concrete dust, and ashes.

It was the best set of explosives Fun Ghoul had ever created, and a tiny part of him hated himself for it.

They stared, mesmerized, at the ruins for a few seconds, and then Fun said, "Thank God Jet Star didn't have to see that."

"Kobra would've enjoyed it," Party pointed out.

"Yeah."

The two Killjoys got back in the Trans-Am and began the return journey down the long, darkening stretch of road. They were quiet for a while, both deep in thought.

Party Poison broke the silence with an abrupt question that sounded almost bored. "Fun Ghoul, are we terrorists?"

Fun glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Party remained motionless, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Why do you ask?" Fun tried to buy some time, thrown by the bluntness of what he thought of as an obvious question to answer. They were definitely not terrorists!

"Well, the fact that we just brutally murdered all those innocent people kinda makes me doubt the strength of our morality," Party replied, still sounding uninterested.

Fun snorted. "They weren't innocent. Everybody in there was totally on BLI's side; some of them were willing to kill, that's how loyal they were. They deserved it."

"Okay." He paused, apparently satisfied, then asked, "But do you suppose Jet Star would've wanted us to avenge him by killing even more people?"

Fun Ghoul couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice as he said, "Look, we did what we had to do. Regardless of what Jet would've said about how wrong it was, we both know those Dracs needed to die. It would've been even more wrong to let them keep living the way they were, celebrating our friends' deaths and slandering their memories."

His comeback was impressive enough to cause Party Poison to recede into silence once more; Fun just wished that he'd felt an ounce of the conviction he'd put into those words.

The cold, black road slipped past as they traveled further into the night.

When the two arrived at the diner, it was to find their friends waiting for them anxiously. Show Pony, Dr. Death Defying, and the Girl cheered as they walked in, and then crowded eagerly around them, demanding to hear the details of what happened.

"How big was the explosion?"

"Did you get in a fight with any Dracs?"

"Is Hot Chimp okay?" (Party's frown deepened at this.)

"Are you okay?"

Fun Ghoul answered each inquiry with a few words as possible: Everyone was fine, of course they got into a fight with the Dracs, and the explosion was big enough to crumble the building. "If you want a retelling of the raid, you're gonna have to wait 'til morning. We're beat."

"Ooh, wait, just one more thing before you go to bed," Show Pony said.

"What?" His comrade's enthusiasm, normally very uplifting, now merely annoyed Fun Ghoul.

"We decided to rename a song to honor recent events," Dr. Death announced. "So it's not called 'Death Before Disco' anymore."

"We called it 'Party Poison' after you!" The Girl beamed at the eponymous Killjoy.

"Great," he replied, and his voice was emptier than the scorched foundation of Outpost 9 had been as he went off to the back room, tears not daring to form in his shell-shocked, exhausted eyes.

_Why,_ Party wondered before he fell asleep, _is it only when you're ready to die that you end up bulletproof?_


	17. Lose Ourselves

"The only friends I've known are the streetlamps I follow home." ~Billy Talent, "Tears Into Wine"

How could this have happened?

How could he have let this happen?

He sat in the middle of a growing despair, staring in numb disbelief at the door through which his coincidental informant had just left. He didn't know how the man had heard the news of the deaths so quickly, but he supposed the information had leaked; that'd be nothing new.

And now here he was, being confronted again with the facts he had fought to repress since last night, since the day a week ago when he'd heard a rumor of a planned attack…

He had done nothing to aid the attack, as his conscience would no longer allow it- not after the last time, when his orders had been disobeyed, the people he so foolishly thought of as his sometime-friends nearly killed. But he had done nothing to stop the trap from being set up, either, for that too would violate his pathetic sense of duty.

They were dead, and there was no getting around it. He was being honored at the celebration for his tiny part in helping, and now he would've given up all the honor in the world to get out of going to that.

If he went to the party, he'd be just as dead as the ones whose deaths he had caused.

But he had to. If he didn't, it'd look suspicious, like he was connected to the terrorist attacks. He was, kind of, but he was supposed to be preventing them, and not attending a victory celebration would mean admitting that he was willing to use more information than just those little snippets of their lives he received from the ones he watched.

It was all too damn complicated.

What if he just went there and did nothing, as he was quickly growing accustomed to doing? If he simply sat there and was blown to bits with all the rest of the people he should be working with? That seemed like the easiest answer, but something inside him recoiled at the thought.

He could not die now, for with him gone, no one would ever know whose side he was really on.

Not that he was sure himself.

He sighed and went off to change into his dress clothes.

At the party, he found a decent opportunity to sneak out and was pleasantly and a bit guiltily surprised when he found that he had been locked out. So much the better, or was it much the worse if he was the only insider who knew the swiftly approaching fate of Outpost 9?

There was no time to bother with that now, though; he had to get as far away as possible. As he walked around the back of the building, he was met with a horrible sight: the parking lot was littered with corpses, some mutilated beyond recognition. A few arguments and counterarguments flitted through his mind like remnants of shredded cloth. _I told you they were evil. __No, after what we did to their comrades' bodies?_

He shook this ongoing civil war out of his head for now and tried to focus on escaping. Someone had left a motorcycle nearby, with the keys still in the ignition, and he wasted no time in swiping it and driving out of the lot. On the way into the street, he saw the car parked out front, recognized the man sitting inside, and wondered, as he always did, whether to apologize to him or shoot him.

He was struck with a sudden, sharper guilt than that constant nagging itch that was as familiar as breathing. He wondered if it was wrong to be fleeing such a thing, and if there was anything he could do. There would be no heroic rushing in at the last second with his gun ablaze, because there was still the problem of who to shoot, but maybe if he could do something to say that at least he tried…

He turned the bike around and drove along a small dirt path for a few yards before coasting to a stop. He got off and trekked back silently, now with a little fear joining the ever-present remorse and fighting for control with the circling thoughts in his head.

The parking lot now had two more occupants; both alive, thankfully (_thankfully_?) and too preoccupied with sealing up the door to notice him crouching behind a well-placed car.

Out of habit he reached for the blaster at his side, but his hand slipped before he'd even removed it from its holster. He knew that, though he was well within sniping distance and had plenty of cover, enough to take out both people before they realized where the shots were coming from, pulling the trigger would be an impossible task.

His hand settled instead on his camera phone, the video recording button of which was much easier to push.


	18. Track 10

"Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity." ~_Romeo and Juliet,_ William Shakespeare

Lindsey had never had a problem with lying on occasion, provided it served a greater purpose, so she didn't mind it much when the guy at the front desk of BLI's Security Office waved her through the doors behind his desk with a "Good luck, Andrea!"

What she did have a problem with was when the people she had worked under for nearly six years without incident called her in to be cross-examined. She figured it made sense- they would have to keep tabs on their employees, especially those who worked in close proximity to the Killjoys- but what had she done wrong?

Nothing, she thought with a chuckle, except for aiding in the destruction of two important Drac (or, as her co-workers called them, "Exterminator") creations. But she was positive that any evidence of such exploits had also been reduced to dust; after all, bombs were just as effective on security tapes as they were on buildings. There could be no case against her.

Content with her self-assured safety, Lindsey sat down in one of the beige armchairs in the small waiting room outside the office of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W department's Head of Security. She glanced briefly at the magazines displayed elegantly on the coffee table, but merely rolled her eyes in derision: every word in those was over-dramatized, outdated, and rarely even half-true. And she had matters to attend to that were more pressing than bad literature.

Lindsey settled back in her chair, closed her eyes, and tried, over the incessant droning of the TV, to figure out why she was being such an idiot.

She had seen her husband twice in the space of a week and hadn't acknowledged that she knew who he was or about their past together, even when he'd figured it out on his own. _Nice work, Lindsey,_ she chastised herself.

The first time, at the Bus, she'd just been surprised to see him. She had certainly not been expecting Gerard to come out of his hideout with his band of rebels and attack the would-be formidable Drac transport system. She told herself, as she had repeatedly since that night, that it hadn't been the right time for a confession like that. The Killjoys had come prepared for a fight, not a declaration of love, and Gerard- it still seemed weird to call him "Party Poison"- had been right anyway: if they'd sat around talking for much longer, one of the relatively more observant Dracs, probably Johan once he'd finished his Kool-Aid, would've seen them and raised the alarm and then they'd be in trouble. And after the detonation, well, it'd still be really random to say something like, "Surprise, I was your wife the whole time!" Plus, she'd had to go off and distance herself from the scene of the crime as much as possible, reporting immediately to the nearest Drac outpost with news of the attack.

That was all well and good, but what about the second encounter? She still couldn't believe that it was just yesterday that the two of them had fought back-to-back, and he'd told her he loved her before blowing up an entire building. She hoped that he only thought that she hadn't heard him properly over the totally shiny music and didn't take offense.

She'd panicked, really. That was the only reason she hadn't run across the parking lot and hugged him, as she'd been sorely tempted to do. It was just the whole thing about how she was suddenly a confirmed traitor and how they had very little time to escape before the building went down or the Dracs found some other way out, and what on Earth was she going to say to her superiors when they asked her, as they were about to do now, why she kept making "fortuitous" getaways, and that she hoped he'd be okay after losing his brother and one of his best friends, and how sad their deaths were, and how sorry she was, and then Gee had to go and give her something _else_ to keep her up at night (like the supposedly one-sided state of their oh-so-_tortured_ romance wasn't doing enough of that already), and what the hell was she supposed to do when she was reunited with her pseudo-terrorist husband after so long without him?

Lindsey dreadfully considered the idea that maybe she didn't really love him anymore, but quickly rejected it when she remembered how she'd nearly worn out her home stereo system playing all his old CD's, not to mention how many days and sometimes nights she'd spent checking and rechecking Drac records and files, and running over Zone surveillance tapes until her eyes ached, searching desperately for any sign of him. She gleaned as much as she could from the blatant propaganda that was the Battery City newspaper, and each mention of his fake name, note about the Killjoys, or brief, blurred screenshot of someone who may or may not have actually been him (all the cameras recorded footage in grayscale, which she found incredibly stupid as Gerard would be ridiculously easy to pick out of the desert landscape if she could only spot his flamboyant red hair) was all it took to make her heart speed up. Even when it wasn't, and she ended up getting excited over something totally irrelevant, she would get this feeling of guilt, like she knew she shouldn't be doing this.

And for a few months she'd honestly tried to forget about her old life, and her driving need for artistic self-expression, and she probably shouldn't have been secretly "in love" with a rebel. She had begun to think that this was just the kind of silly, obsessive, slightly creepy stalking behavior that a lot of hardcore fangirls went through, and she was confusing it with love! Why was she doing this to herself?

Oh right, she'd realized, because she was his fucking _wife_! She wasn't one of those hopeless wannabes jumping up and down at a concert, screaming, "Marry me!" She was actually married to the guy, and no matter how often BLI tried to convince her that love was unimportant and her old life didn't matter, Lindsey knew better. She was again ashamed for a few days, not at breaking rules this time, but at letting their tenants almost make her lose sight of what she knew to be true.

She'd requested a position at a refurbished outpost out in Zone 4 as a spy, really hoping to see him- even just the beat-up old car he had been so fond of. But as soon as she knew, as she'd suspected from the start, that he was not only alive and running, but vehemently encouraging no more than freedom of speech, with a touch of violence only if really necessary, Lindsey also knew that she could never be a Drac because she had to be with him.

Well, then, she supposed it was kind of her job to monitor him. She had to have some way of making sure he was safe and of, however obnoxiously corny it sounded, renewing her love for him. If she couldn't see him, she had to find other ways of reminding herself that he was the man she'd dedicated her life to.

She knew she should've told him sooner that she still loved him, but now she figured that she'd find a way to announce it on her radio station by dedicating him something sufficiently slaughtermatic and as soon as she could, she'd ask Show Pony where in the hell their secret base was. Or maybe she'd just follow him back there. Whatever. But in any case, when she saw her husband again, she still wasn't sure whether she'd kiss Gerard or beat him to a bloody pulp for being such a risk-taker.

Lindsey jumped as a voice in the next room yelled, "I am _not_ weak, I'm _not_ a traitor, and don't you _dare_ demote me!"

It was Leonard. She'd known he was being questioned as well, but she hadn't realized that, for one, they'd be interrogating him just before her, and for another, that he had anything to be so damn angry about. He had nothing to hide, what with his spotless history, but then BLI's security did need to be top-notch. She supposed they were threatening him.

She waited, tensely trying to hear any other bits of conversation through the thick door, but her efforts were in vain. Leonard still looked perfectly composed, as always, when he emerged from the office, but she detected a subtle urgency in the way he turned to her and said, "Hello, Andrea. I wouldn't have expected to see you here, but then I wouldn't have expected to be here myself." He glared over his shoulder at the door that had just shut behind him.

"How are you, Leonard?" she said conversationally, for lack of anything substantial to say; he'd taken the words right out of her mouth.

"Oh, I'm all right," the Drac replied, his typical air of superiority seemingly untouched by his recent, momentary meltdown. "I'm just off to pay a visit to the Fabulous Killjoys."

Lindsey very nearly had an aneurysm, but then remembered that Leonard was one of BLI's most effective spies; having lived out in the Zones almost as long as his enemies, he almost never returned except with important discoveries. Most of the information he gathered was what Lindsey knew to be truthful: having known the Killjoys before they were on the run, she'd been able to confirm a lot of what he found out.

"Do you know where their hideout is yet?" she asked, not bothering to sound casual.

"Yes! I finally found it!" Leonard exclaimed. (_Well, it's about damn time,_ Lindsey thought.) "It's at the old diner off Route Guano, the one in Zone 5, you know?"

"Weren't you stationed, like, half a mile from there?"

"Yes, but they did a very good job of hiding it," Leonard replied defensively. "Anyway, I'm gonna give the Scarecrow unit the four-one-one. We should be there by sunset."

With that, he walked out, and the soft click of the door closing after him punctuated Lindsey's growing agitation. While Leonard's boasting would buy her some time, it was fortunate that she'd been the first to hear it; it put her a step ahead of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W. But she'd still have to act fast if she was to warn her fellow Killjoys of the impending threat.

Lindsey was halfway across the room in pursuit of Leonard when the office door opened and Airi Isoda called, "Going somewhere, Andrea?"

Party Poison woke up late, sometime during midmorning, and a half hour later, he still didn't feel like getting up.

His head was crammed full of scenes from all that had gone down last night- the gunfight, the explosion, the bodies in the parking lot. But he pushed those terribly ordinary memories from his mind, returning instead to thoughts of his wife and how she hadn't recognized him, how she'd just left him there.

She'd proved that she knew nearly everything about him and his Killjoy group, and, if that was the case, she should know their true identities as well. So she should've known long ago that they had been married once.

Then why hadn't she said anything? Maybe she hadn't heard him last night over the incredibly loud music but she could've mentioned it before, at least. He wondered for a second if she even wanted to acknowledge their relationship (maybe she'd grown past it, or decided she didn't love him) but dismissed this as he remembered that she had kept the wedding ring, which was taking a pretty big risk because he was sure the Dracs didn't approve of jewelry, or least of all the sentimental value it stood for.

Well, then, what was her deal? Party sighed, running his hands over his face. He'd basically given up on his ability to understand women a while ago, so this was a hopeless case.

_Stop being so angsty,_ he berated himself. _You're just wasting your time on a bunch of what-ifs. How 'bout you go and__-_a knock on the door of the diner cut into his reverie- _see who's outside?_

Party heaved himself up and walked out into what passed for the living room. Fun Ghoul was sound asleep in a booth and Party regretted pushing him so hard the night before last. Meanwhile, Dr. Death Defying and Show Pony were deep in concentration on some antenna-like radio component while the Girl was looking between them and the main door nervously. He went to the door and peered through the glass at the woman outside.

She appeared to have stepped out of a '60s fashion catalogue: she had on faded bell-bottom jeans, a tie-dye T-shirt, and a long braid down her back. The laser blaster in the holster at her waist was multicolored as well, and had what looked like a peace sign on it.

She clearly wasn't a Drac, but Party Poison still opened the door cautiously, and she called through the little crack, "Hi! I'm Adrenaline Angel; I was Kobra Kid's friend. Can I come in?"

Lindsey sat stiffly in the chair across from Airi Isoda, feeling a bit like a troublesome kid in the principal's office. She was suddenly very nervous, and this was only compounded by her impatience: she wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, as she had more important and less government sanctioned matters to attend to.

"Andrea Ballato, do you know why you're here?" Airi began the questioning. Lindsey knew that these formalities, like referring to her by her full "name," were required so that the cameras in the room could keep records of those involved, and so that Airi didn't have to deal with any more paperwork than that which littered her desk.

Lindsey swallowed. "Yes; I was present at two recent Killjoy attacks."

"More specifically, you were the only survivor of two recent Killjoy attacks, excepting Leonard Connor, who has already been cleared of suspicion," the Head of Security noted.

Lindsey nodded. "That's right."

Airi folded her hands. "At the first attack, which occurred on Wednesday, August 15 and resulted in the destruction of the first and only Provision, Ammunition, and Reinforcement Transportation System- commonly referred to as the Party Bus- you were disrupted in your evening patrol by a pair of Killjoy vehicles, correct?"

"Yes," Lindsey responded, and, feeling that she ought to be just as precise, added, "One of those was a stolen Standard-issue Exterminator motorcycle, the other a 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans-Am."

Airi nodded. "And you were driving the Party Bus at the time."

"I was."

"What happened when the Killjoys intercepted you?"

Lindsey tried her best to remember exactly what she'd told the Dracs at the outpost she'd gone to that night. "Um, they almost ran into the Bus, so I stopped, and when I got out to see what we'd have to deal with- how many Killjoys there were, and all- I found that they'd taken out the motorcyclists assigned to guard and patrol duty with us. The group of Killjoys took me hostage and demanded to know how to destroy the Bus. They threatened me at gunpoint, and I finally told them what I knew about the Bus being laser-proof. They decided to throw an explosive into the Bus, and while they were busy planning and executing this, I escaped on the least-damaged motorcycle."

Airi glanced at one of the papers on her desk. "All right, that's consistent with what you reported to Outpost 6 the night of the incident. But why didn't you alert the Exterminators in the Bus of what had happened?"

"Well, for one thing, the Killjoys would've shot me," Lindsey stalled. "And most of the others in the Bus were in no condition to fight: they were all drunk, that's why I was driving."

Her interrogator nodded sympathetically. This was a common complaint among designated drivers: the vulnerability posed by transporting inebriated Exterminators in case of Killjoy attacks. "Why not send out a distress signal?" Airi pressed.

Lindsey's mind worked desperately to come up with an excuse, and she replied lamely, "I-I didn't think of it then. I was too scared, I guess."

The Head of Security frowned in disbelief, but seemed to decide the matter wasn't worth pursuing, because she said, "I see. I suppose we'll just have to speak to the Health Department about adjusting your anxiety medicine."

_Shiny,_ Lindsey thought sarcastically. _More pills to not take._ Her argument was apparently convincing, though, because Airi changed the subject.

"What happened at the second attack?"

Lindsey sighed, and started to explain, glad that this time she hadn't had a chance to make a report beforehand. It made bullshitting things much easier.

When she was done with her long-winded, half-true story, her interrogator simply smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"And you insist you had nothing to do with the attack? You didn't take part in any of the planning?"

"No," Lindsey replied, trying to quell her nerves and keep her voice from shaking.

"Very well, Andrea," Airi replied. She opened the laptop on her desk and clicked something. "Could you tell me what this song is?" She played the intro to the revamped "Death Before Disco."

"That's a Killjoy song, one of the ones I play on my mock radio station."

"And how did the spoken words at the beginning, the ones in Japanese, come to be in the song?"

Lindsey hesitated. She wasn't sure why Airi was asking something that concerned her as well; BLI discouraged the upholding of many culture-specific behaviors, such as the use of any foreign languages. But then, Airi Isoda had always been granted special privileges as the company's Japanese ambassador; rumor had it that the woman was the sole owner of a legal _katana_ in America, the thinking being that allowing her a strong connection to her country of origin would in turn strengthen the bond between Japan, the only known economic superpower besides the U.S. to have survived the Helium Wars, and BLI.

So Lindsey replied truthfully, "You gave me the recording of all that." She remembered the confusion she'd felt when her boss, whom she'd never considered to be more than that, slipped her the CD, with a translation attached on a Post-It, telling her to "put it to good use." At the time, she hadn't thought much of it, but when she was preparing her playlist for the attack, she had figured that this was the best use of phrases that were almost shiny enough to sound…rebellious.

Back in the present, Airi asked, "Were you aware that the file had a specific frequency attached to it, so that when played, it transmitted signals detectable using certain sensors?"

"No, I didn't know that," Lindsey replied, as a sinking feeling of dread seeped into her stomach.

"Our sensors picked up the frequency emanating from Outpost 9, the location of last night's attack," Airi continued, taking time to embellish the account for the cameras. "Since you were the only person with that recording, you were the only one who could've caused the signal. So tell me, Andrea, why did you play a Killjoy song at an Exterminator celebration minutes before the building was destroyed?"

Damn. "I…I, uh," Lindsey couldn't think of a single thing to say that would get her out of this. "Th-the Killjoys there demanded that I play that for them so they could, like, make a statement…" That was the best she could do, and it was rather pathetic.

Airi smiled again, maliciously, condescendingly. "You've always been a terrible liar, Lindsey."

The Killjoy's eyes widened in shock at the use of her real name.

"That _is_ what your Killjoy friend- or should I say husband- calls you, isn't it?" Airi stated calmly, with a significant glance at Lindsey's left hand. She moved it quickly under the table, and her interrogator shook her head, sighed, and pulled a cell phone out of a drawer in her desk.

"This recording was given to me by Leonard Connor after his questioning today. It was taken by him immediately before the explosion." Airi explained, as she plugged it into her laptop and brought up a larger picture. She pressed "play."

It was footage of Lindsey, clearly identifiable since she'd forgotten to wear a mask- _I'm such an idiot!_ she thought- and Party Poison, wearing his trademark yellow mask, emerging from the back of the building. They exchanged a few words, and Lindsey sealed up the door before getting on her motorbike to make her escape. She came very close to the camera at that point; Leonard must've been hiding behind a sand dune nearby. How had she failed to notice him? And Gerard, the beautiful, sentimental fool that he was, declared his love for her, using her _fucking real name_, and the video ended.

Lindsey was definitely going to have to beat him to a bloody pulp, then.

Adrenaline Angel was very easy to talk to, as she always gave you the feeling that she was truly interested in every word you had to say- Fun Ghoul supposed that was why Kobra Kid had been friends with her in the first place. For about an hour or so, all the Killjoys sat around and just talked. Dr. Death, Show Pony, and the Girl did get the retelling of the raid they'd wanted, minus a few small details like when Fun broke that Drac's neck. He was almost positive that Party Poison was hiding something too, because the redhead quickly changed the subject when asked about how he and Hot Chimp had fared.

The conversation shifted to Adrenaline Angel and what her life was like. She explained that she ran a music and art supply store in Zone 6, and that she was the one who had sold Kobra his sparkle-covered bass. She seemed a bit surprised when they showed it to her. "You still have it?" she asked unnecessarily. "You didn't burn it when you got the news, then?"

"No," Party said simply. "We wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons."

Fun, however, was rather irritated at her assumption. "Why the hell would we burn it?" he asked, more harshly than he'd intended.

Adrenaline Angel smiled with no real happiness in her face. "A lot of Killjoys cremate items belonging to their fallen friends, as a way to say goodbye…I'm glad you kept that guitar, though," she added, her voice heavy with nostalgia. "It was always my favorite."

They let her listen to their nearly finished nine tracks and Adrenaline Angel told them vehemently that they were the best songs ever. She hung out with them for the rest of the day, sharing their lunch. No one complained, though there was little to go around, because they all felt better having somebody there who had also known Kobra. It was nice to be with someone else who was missing him, too.

It was shortly after the multiple cans of dog food that passed for dinner when Fun Ghoul ran in from out front with the announcement that a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W van had just pulled up.

Everyone reacted at once: Dr. Death Defying gathered all the most important things from his desk, Show Pony grabbed the back of his wheelchair, and they, along with the Girl, started for the old van parked behind the diner; Party Poison made sure his laser blaster was set to "Kill" and had a good amount of battery power, and Fun Ghoul did the same; Adrenaline Angel peeked out at the enemy vehicle with a look so enthusiastic it was almost frightening.

The twelve S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, carrying laser rifles, were led by a single Draculoid with an ordinary laser gun, the ensemble made all the more formidable and eerie by the weird, smiley-face masks they wore.

They came up to the "patio" area- really just a patch of concrete- and the Drac knocked on the door. It was oddly polite for someone who was about to attempt massacre. Instantly Adrenaline Angel had her laser out and aimed at the Drac's head; Party opened the door, about to shoot as well, but his enemy said, "I _am_ sorry about this, Party."

For the second time in a week, Party had the sense of knowing a voice from somewhere, but not being able to place it. He didn't have to wait long to find out, though, as the Drac pulled off his mask, stepping out of the doorway and into the rarely-used porch light as he did so.

It was Sweet Revenge.

Party had barely registered this, and blurted in the first feeble sprouts of rage, "How could you- " when Fun Ghoul charged forward yelling, "Die, motherfucker!"

He clearly wanted to use whatever tiny element of surprise was left on their side, but this was an underestimation of his enemy's training: so quickly that no one registered it 'til after it was done, Sweet Revenge (it _couldn't_ be him…could it?) whipped a gun from its holster and shot him in the neck, then turned and dashed off the porch.

Adrenaline Angel raced out the door, shooting at the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W wildly; she grabbed his hand and yanked him along after her.

It was the farthest hundred yards he'd ever run in his life, with the heat from every laser blast that barely missed him singeing the hairs on his arms and his clothes, with Fun's slack, defeated face seared into his mind, blurring all his other perceptions…

_He can't be dead. No. Not Fun Ghoul too._

Lost in horrified denial, Party barely felt it when Adrenaline Angel caught him and slammed him back into the side of the Trans-Am; they were crouched away from the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W with the car between them. Angel jumped up whenever she could to fire suppressive lasers at the approaching foes, but she couldn't hold out for very long.

"Grace? Where are you?" Show Pony called.

"What do you mean, you can't find her?!" Dr. Death snapped from the van's passenger seat.

"What do you think I mean?" Show Pony snapped back, glancing around desperately. She'd been right next to him a second ago.

Their frightened, terse exchange was interrupted by a loud _crack_ and a high-pitched scream that could only belong to a young girl. Show Pony dashed back into the diner, where the sound had come from, and found Grace crouching under a window next to Fun Ghoul's body, clutching a revolver.

He ran over to her, said something along the lines of, "Grace, it's okay, I'll cover you. Go get in the van." He took the gun from her, and saw as she stood up that she'd been sitting protectively near some kind of explosive device. He picked that up too, and followed her out, trying to ignore his friend lying on the floor with a burn mark in his throat.

Show Pony made sure she got into the van safely, which was good, since he was hit in the shoulder with a stray laser a second after closing her door. He retaliated with a shot from the revolver, but missed completely; he wasn't used to guns that had recoil. Show Pony was about to run around to the driver's side when he realized that Dr. Death was already sitting there. He mouthed to Show Pony, "Come on!"

Show Pony managed to open the door while cradling the bomb with the same arm; his left arm seemed to be entirely nonfunctional, as the shot had hit a tendon or something bad like that. Dr. Death drove up alongside Party Poison and Adrenaline Angel, hiding out behind the Trans-Am, and gestured for them to get in. Party shook his head, and Show Pony rolled down his window.

"I'm not leaving Fun Ghoul," the leader elaborated.

"But it's way too risky to just leave you two here and- " Dr. Death's protests were cut off by Show Pony, who snarled through the growing pain in his shoulder, "If he wants to stay, let him stay."

After a second of thought, he said, "But take this," and handed the bomb to Adrenaline Angel, who grinned.

"Perfect," she said, and that was the last thing Show Pony heard before he passed out. He woke up about a minute later, and a good thing too, because Dr. Death had no idea where the hell he was going.

Lindsey raced down Route Guano as evening fell and wondered three things, her thoughts flashing past faster than the lines on the road.

The first was why the Killjoys had to locate their stupid secret base so far out in the Zones. The second was why her boss's goddamn fancy, polished, borrowed motorbike couldn't go any faster, while her mind raced a hundred miles a minute and was still trying to process exactly how she'd gotten out of _that_ one.

The third was whether her husband was dead yet.

She gunned the throttle even more, speeding past her radio station and into Zone 5. At the sight of a van coming towards her she tasted bile in the back of her throat- but it was an odd light blue color, not the bleached-bone white of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, and she left it in the dust without a second thought.

She pulled up in front of the old diner, jumping off the bike and almost falling down in her haste. She ripped off her helmet and, for a moment, all her energy drained away, replaced by an icy chill of fear that paralyzed her.

It was worse than she could've possibly imagined.

She hadn't known such a feeling was achievable, this sort of ecstatic terror, this tremulous bliss. Every high-pitched whistle of a laser that barely missed her made her want to scream and collapse into hysterical laughter simultaneously. So when she saw that a few of the Scarecrow soldiers were advancing under the suppressive fire of the rest, she had been freaking _pumped_. Soaring on this internal high, Adrenaline Angel finally realized the sense behind her name.

She soon realized, however, that the attackers were gonna be really hard to deal with, trapped behind the car as she was. She could see what they were going for- to get close enough that they could simply reach around the car and shoot her and Party Poison. Whenever she got a clear shot, she'd jump up and blast laser-light at the oncoming enemy, but her shots were few, far between, and hard as hell to aim.

She had just gotten around to asking herself what Kobra Kid would do (or would've done, rather) in this jam, when a loud bang rang out from the direction of the diner; one of the soldiers fell, bleeding from a hole in his chest.

That gunshot- who the hell used _bullets_ anymore?- had resounded through her, increasing her agitation until all she wanted to do was rip out some throats, and raising the hairs on her arms and her exhilaration to a fever pitch.

And if course, it also freaked out the Scarecrow, and gave her time to plan her attack while they located the source of the shot.

She knelt in the dirt with her back against the car's tire and studied the deadly gift she'd been given. It was hooked to a time-delay detonator, which appeared to be set for twenty seconds. Normally, she'd have been worried about whether that was long enough, but now she was confident it was all the time she would ever need.

Turning to her best friend's oh-so-famous brother, who looked like he wanted nothing more right then than to curl up in a corner and cry, she said, "Cover me," and handed over her totally tricked-out laser gun.

"What are you doing?" he asked desperately, his voice hoarse and weary from stress.

Adrenaline Angel pressed the trigger button, and felt yet another surge of fearful joy as the small, red numbers began to count down. Her heart started to beat in time with them…19...18...

She smiled at Party Poison one last time and said, with more sureness than anything she'd ever heard herself say, "I'm going to meet Kobra Kid."

Adrenaline Angel leapt up and dashed around the side of the car, pelting towards the enemies and their identical masks, every inch of her skin tingling. A blast to the leg, which instinctively she knew to be hot enough to vaporize most of her cells, wasn't strong enough to break through the feeling that had consumed her.

Adrenaline Angel had never felt so alive, and just as she reached the group of S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, she went out with quite a bang.

Lindsey walked around the small, smoking crater and charred bodies in the yard, and through the door of the diner. Gerard was there, hunched over Fun Ghoul's body, and she was so full to bursting with anxiety and relief and sympathy and exhilaration and freaking _emotion_ that she dropped to her knees beside him and, when he glanced up in shock, kissed him like he was the only thing that mattered to her in the world. Because right then, he was.

They parted, and he managed to stutter a surprised, "H-hi..." His eyes flickered back to his friend's body, and Lindsey asked, "Is he alive?"

"Yeah," Gerard responded, his voice weak with relief. "He's breathing."

"Let's get him outta here, then."

Together, they carried Fun Ghoul out to the Trans-Am and laid him gently across the back seats. Lindsey gave a small exclamation when an important memory broke loose in her mind, and reached into her shirt pocket. She removed a small, vacuum-sealed packet and tore it open, unfolding the thin blue film inside and rubbing it between her fingers to activate it.

She placed the now-cool piece of material over the burn mark on Fun's neck, and told Gerard as he watched curiously, "It's a special device BLI invented to speed up cell regrowth. He should be fine by tomorrow."

"Thank God," her husband whispered, and walked shakily over to the passenger side, where he collapsed into the seat. Lindsey got in on the driver's side, and Gerard handed her the keys.

As she started back down the highway to her hideout, she said conversationally, "I love you, Gee."

"…love ya too, Linds," he muttered before slipping off to sleep.


	19. If We Were Dead

"These bright lights have always blinded me." ~My Chemical Romance, "Famous Last Words"

He huddled against the wall, leaning on it as it was the only thing keeping him on his feet. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. It was beyond terrible, the worst sort of betrayal in a long list of betrayals, all weighing down on his conscience at once, crushing him, unbearable.

He could make all the usual excuses about a sense of duty, and upholding his loyalty, and even that his victim had deserved what he got. None of it was worth anything against the overwhelming sadness that he'd felt when his hero, who he'd been forever indebted to since his life was saved at the age of sixteen, had looked at him with such disappointment and hurt. He'd said he was sorry, but that was equally worthless given the magnitude of the deed.

He was utterly alone now, since he knew he couldn't go back to work after this and be applauded for his "victory" that was worse than the bitterest defeat. He couldn't stand the thought of knowing what he'd done to the people who had once befriended him, either, and he was cast out on all sides.

It was fitting, then, he figured with a harsh, mirthless laugh. He, who had been doomed to live miserable and alone since his mother's death, practically orphaned by his father, and now he had turned traitor to all those who trusted him.

He would die alone, the way the world wanted him to.

He raised his laser blaster to his temple, but thought he'd better make this shot really count for something, since he only got to do it once. So he placed the barrel against the tender cartilage and faintly humming heartbeat in his throat. He swallowed convulsively, stricken by a sudden wave of fear at the thought of death: inescapable, permanent, dark. But he deserved no less.

What should his last words be, whispered into the cold loneliness of an uncaring night? He was not so childish as to try some cliché like "Goodbye cruel world," or a final note telling everyone he was sorry- they'd never read it if they knew it was from him. Instead he forced his shaking jaw to open, made his lips move, and spoke to everyone he knew and everything he was leaving behind:

"So long and goodnight."

No one heard the blast or saw the light, but he pulled the trigger and fell through the curtains in solitude, into peaceful, sorrowful blackness.


	20. Track 11

"Ain't we all just runaways? I knew it when I met you: I'm not gonna let you run away." ~The Killers, "Runaways"

After she and Party Poison settled Fun Ghoul into a bed in the back of the station to recover, Hot Chimp went into the living room, which doubled as a studio, to talk to the one person she never would've expected to see again but who she had to admit was probably the most likely to end up here: Steve, the guitarist in her old band, now going by the name Dr. Death Defying (she'd thought he sounded familiar).

Lindsey hugged him awkwardly and sat down on the couch across from him, to talk about what had happened, to catch up on irrelevant things like she hadn't done in years. But he was quick to point out the state of his injured, scarcely-conscious friend Show Pony, slumped in the comfiest armchair she had, with a sheen of sweat on his face and a nasty burn on his shoulder.

Hot Chimp jumped up, going over to the kitchen cupboards and taking down a boxful of Betterlife Bandages. She returned with a second sheet of blue film, which she placed on the wound on Show Pony's shoulder. He jumped and winced at the contact, but seemed to believe her when she explained that he'd be okay in the morning.

Hot Chimp was eager to talk to someone, anyone, about what she'd just been through, but Show Pony was dozing off where he sat and Dr. Death looked dead on his feet (foot? How the hell had _that_ happened?) so she directed the DJ to the second back bedroom, where the Girl was sitting, watching nothing through the window, her teary eyes filled with reflected laser beams. Dr. Death told her to go to bed, and even though she snuggled up to him like a puppy, even though he put an arm around her comfortingly, Hot Chimp knew Grace wouldn't be getting much sleep.

She walked past Fun Ghoul's room, saw Gerard curled up on a blanket on the floor beside his bed, and went back to the living room. She made a bed on the pullout sofa and touched Show Pony to wake him. She offered him the sofa bed, but he said no thanks, that he didn't mind staying right where he was. "That's a recliner," Hot Chimp informed him helpfully.

"Oh," he muttered, pulling the handle on the side and stretching out in a near-horizontal position. "Thanks."

Hot Chimp curled up on the pullout couch and soon she, like all the other Killjoys, had sunk into a restless, fitful slumber.

Party Poison had woken up with the sun, eaten some actually decent food for breakfast, and then gone back in the bedroom to wait for his friend to stir. He waited for what seemed like a very long time as the sun rose higher, and tried everything he could think of to wake Fun Ghoul up faster: flicking him, calling his Killjoy name, calling his real name in hopes that maybe his unconscious mind still thought of him as Frank, telling him that he had a concert to get to, only joking a little when he held an open pack of cigarettes under his nose. But after he been at it for an hour, and Fun Ghoul still showed no signs of coming around, Party went outside for a smoke, hoping that his wife had been right and that Fun would wake up on his own.

She was sitting outside too, on the arbitrary front porch swing (the radio station looked like it had once been a house), wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showed off the dozens of tattoos winding their way up her left arm. This was probably part of the reason she was in such a good mood- she'd always had to cover up her ink because BLI would've forced her to get laser surgery if she'd shown them off, and now anyone could tell at a glance that she was a rebel.

She looked up and smiled when he sat next to her. Lindsey was reading a letter, and, when he glanced at it in interest, told him, "I never get mail here, but this is pretty important." She handed it to him, and he read:

**Andrea,**

**I hope you're all right and that Isoda didn't chew you out too badly.**

**Our mission was completely botched: all the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W, some of our best soldiers, were killed by a suicide bomber and I myself was injured badly. I'll be alright, fortunately.**

**However, I do have some bad news. Korse is aware of your location and the nature of your company and has announced his plan to attack you if you do not respond to this within twenty-four hours. He also wishes to inform you that, if your companions are willing, he would like to challenge your leader to a formal duel to the death. It will take place a week from today on August 27****th**** where Route Guano passes into the limits of Battery City, and the winner will decide the fate of any reinforcements brought by the other side, as well as receiving important information concerning the enemy's base locations, numbers of troops, and upcoming attack plans.**

**I wish you the best of luck. Tell your friend Fun Ghoul that he's not the only one with a laser burn in his neck.**

**Stardust,**

**Leonard Connor**

Party Poison's first question of many was, "Who's Leonard?"

"He works in the same office as me. You met him at that party a couple days ago," Lindsey said, chuckling at her mundane answer. Then she frowned. "But I have reason to believe that he was spying on you as well, long before then. He gave us details he couldn't possibly have known otherwise. Can you think of anyone you know who could've been actually working for BLI?"

"Sweet Revenge," Party replied, feeling another rush of anger as he remembered the man who he had thought was trustworthy standing there, declaring his traitorism, nearly killing Party's best friend, and all the bastard could say was that he was sorry? "He worked at the gas station near us; we went there and talked to him almost every weekend."

"That was Leonard, then," she confirmed. "But I wonder why, if he is on BLI's side, did he say 'Stardust' at the end of this?" Lindsey bit her lip in contemplation.

"I don't know; he probably thinks it's a fad or something," Party said irritably, not really caring about that now; he was still pissed at the scumbag, and now here the coward was, asking them to let Fun know that he wasn't the only one who'd been wounded. _Well, of course not! You would know, wouldn't you__-_he thought as though he was addressing Leonard- _you were the one that shot him!_

Just as he was wishing that the turncoat were here so Party could grind out his cigarette in the fucker's eye, Lindsey changed the subject. "How's Fun Ghoul?"

"He hasn't woken up yet, but he has a pulse, so…"

"He just needs to get some rest, I'm sure," she said. "Almost dying takes a lot out of you." She grinned, and he was amazed at how optimistic she seemed in spite of everything.

Party sighed out a little cloud of smoke, and stared into it while he felt an increasing amount of pity for his friends, and how messed-up they were because he had decided to become a rebel. But before he could get too angry at himself, he remembered that they had all agreed to come with him, no matter what. That didn't make him any happier about the state of things, though.

"Lindsey," he began. "I hate to ask this, but what happened to Bandit after the show?" He hadn't thought about his daughter in months, he realized sadly. Only since he'd found out his wife was still alive had he wondered about their child.

Lindsey closed her eyes, frowned. "I dropped her off at Jamia's house while I went to the concert, and when I was waiting for you in the parking lot- " Party winced at the memory of why he'd never met her there "- an air raid siren went off. We all hid in the basement of the concert hall, and when we came out, I didn't see you anywhere, so I went back to get Bandit and make sure she was okay. But when I got to Jamia's house, they were- " Lindsey broke off, swallowed, and tried again. "The house was destroyed."

Party knew that Frank's wife hadn't had a bomb shelter- no one had had a bomb shelter in 2013- and sighed again, in sadness that his worst fears were made definite. His wife said, in a shaky voice, "I don't think we should tell Fun when he wakes up. It'd just depress him."

"I'm not sure it would, really," Party replied, and for something to do he dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. "It wouldn't even be a surprise. I mean, we all kind of figured that after the war and everything that you guys would be dead." Understandably, this seemed to make Lindsey very sad, and so he embraced her, like he'd wanted to for six years. He'd forgotten that she always smelled like strawberries; it was nice.

"It's okay," he whispered, and found, to his mild surprise, that it _was_ okay: Painful though talk of his daughter's death was, it was really only confirming what he'd assumed, that both she and Lindsey were dead. And to then find that his wife- who was still so beautiful his heart ached- was alive; well, that was truly wonderful news. He smiled in an ironic sort of contentment as he thought, _One out of two ain't too bad._

When Fun Ghoul woke up, he was aware of two things: first, that his neck ached like hell, and second, that he had no idea where he was.

He sat up, squinting in the sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar window, and as he tried to stand up, quickly discovered that not just his neck hurt. He felt completely exhausted and beaten, as though every nerve in his body had been ripped out, stretched to the breaking point, stomped on, and sewn back in with barbed wire. He groaned and blinked to try and fend off a growing headache.

It took him several minutes to get up enough leg strength to stand, but he finally did, and wobbled down the hall, where he met the other Killjoys. They were gathered in what he guessed was a living room, all talking at once. Party Poison was the first to notice him, and he looked at Fun Ghoul with his eyebrows raised in concern. Fun tried to smile, to reassure him that he was at least not dead yet, but as he had to hold on to the doorjamb to keep himself upright, he probably just looked mildly nauseous.

The others stopped talking and looked over at him, and he waved feebly. He'd expected that he would have to keep the Girl from hugging him with too much enthusiasm, but she simply beamed at him from the couch; someone must've warned her that he'd be in a lot of pain when he woke up. He sat next to her and she leaned against him carefully. Everyone was still silent, waiting for him to speak.

"What happened last night?" Fun Ghoul asked, startled at how hoarse his voice sounded.

Party started to tell the story, but Fun couldn't stop from gasping in shock, along with everyone else, when Party told them how Adrenaline Angel had sacrificed herself. "That's insane!" Fun croaked. "How the hell could she do something so stupid?"

"I don't know," Party replied. "I wanted to stop her, but she was too fast. By the time I realized she was going to bomb them, she'd already left."

"That sounds oddly familiar," Show Pony spat sarcastically, though he made a valiant attempt to sound joking. "Weren't you the one who wanted to fight a hundred Dracs single-handedly and have us blow you up?"

Dr. Death placed a hand on his arm to calm him down, but Party replied easily, "I was an idiot. I was too shortsighted to realize the effect that my death could've had on you guys. But I had Lindsey- " he smiled at her "- to help me figure out that life was still worth living. I don't think Adrenaline Angel had anyone like that."

Show Pony closed his mouth and looked away, saddened by the loss of a person he had hardly known.

Everyone chimed in with their own parts of the story. Fun was impressed when Grace told him she had taken out a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W with his revolver; he'd always known teaching her about weaponry would pay off, but her providing a distraction long enough for Angel's stupid, decisive blow was more than he'd hoped for. When they were done, Fun Ghoul sat back and tried to process it all. _At least I know where we are now._

The conversation then turned to a duel that was apparently coming up; Hot Chimp quickly filled him in on the finer points, and Fun asked, "Doesn't all that bargaining sound a bit suspicious?"

"I think it sounds uninformed," Dr. Death said. "Korse is obviously unaware of the fact that we couldn't tell him any more about our troop movements or how many of us there are than he already knows."

"And on top of that," Party Poison added, "we have no use for lists of his outpost locations or any of that; we couldn't do anything with it."

Hot Chimp laughed. "Are you kidding? You guys wrecked an entire building and came away unscathed! How is that not worth something?"

"It was a fluke," Fun Ghoul answered. "There just happened to be this huge amount of Dracs in one place at the wrong time, and we had the means to attack them. We couldn't do that now, because for one thing, it sounds like they know that you're not on their side anymore." He didn't say the second reason they couldn't have a raid like that now: It would serve very little purpose to seek out and kill more Dracs; they had no cause for revenge (except perhaps against Sweet Revenge himself) if they could get rid of Korse.

"But we still have to fight in this thing, or I do," Party echoed Fun's thoughts, with the reckless-as-always assumption that he'd be the one in danger. "We kill Korse, and the entire power structure of BLI changes. They'll need a new leader, unless Korse cloned himself, which I wouldn't put past him, but if not, there'll be a while where everybody's fighting for his place."

"And we launch an attack on Battery City while their defenses are down, right?" Show Pony suggested.

"I was gonna say we slip some songs into their radio stations and head for the hills," Party shot him down. "Because if we do attack Battery City, we'll, what, destroy some factories and some politicians or whatever, but it won't matter because they'll have more to take their places. Meanwhile, we'll have risked our lives by going straight into their home territory, and I don't think all of us would come out alive. I can't let you guys take that risk."

Show Pony sighed in frustration at his leader's new pacifistic attitude, but had to admit he was right.

"So we don't do anything at their weakest moment?" Dr. Death asked incredulously. "We just run away and let them recover?"

The Girl was looking from each person to the next as they spoke, following the debate like a Ping-Pong match, trying to figure out who she agreed with.

"Party's got a good point." Naturally, Hot Chimp sided with her husband. "I worked at BLI for a long time, remember, and I know how they do things. If we get a break during the power struggle- and I don't think we will; the company's too bureaucratic to collapse entirely, and nothing will stop the Exterminator units aside from killing every last one- but should we get a momentary break, attacking would weaken them for a while, maybe even a long while, but in the end it would just give them more evidence of us being terrorists and more reason to come after us."

"Okay, so," Fun Ghoul clarified. "Even if we _win_, we still retreat and give them a chance to regroup?"

"Yes," Party replied. "Because then we can figure out how they choose new leaders for the Dracs and see if we can't work that to our advantage."

"Like rigging the votes or something?" Dr. Death asked skeptically.

"If we could get somebody who was working on the inside, a Killjoy like Lindsey, or at least a Killjoy sympathizer, to become leader, it'd be smooth sailing from there."

"That would work," Lindsey mused. "And I have an idea of who it ought to be."

"And even if it doesn't, that would still be the most ideal outcome," Party continued. "None of you would have to die, we'd take out Korse, and do like we always do: Keep running." For somebody who had suggested that he practically dive headfirst into a firefight alone three days ago, Party Poison was making a lot of sense.

Fun thought that they ought to be prepared for the duel in case it was actually a trap, and after saying this to the group, he thought to himself that he should really ask Kobra Kid to teach him kung fu at some point…Where was he aga-

Oh. Right.

_Shit._

Dr. Death agreed that they should all be ready for anything, and bring as many dangerous things as possible. Fun chuckled; he already had that covered, but he might have to instruct some others in how to hide knives in their clothing.

Then Grace piped up that they should have battle music. Lindsey grinned at her husband, sharing some inside joke, and said, "That'd be pretty shiny. We could announce our arrival with it."

Party said, "I was actually coming up with some ideas for new songs. Maybe it's time for something a little more battle rage-y."

"I'll play guitar for you, but we don't have any other instruments," Fun pointed out.

"We could always create more drum tracks," Show Pony said, his previous irritation dissolving into typical enthusiasm now that they had worked out a plan.

"Ooh! I play piano!" Grace declared in excitement.

"I play bass, you know," Lindsey chimed in.

"Really? Since when?" Dr. Death joked. "I haven't really played guitar since the band broke up, but I could relearn, I suppose."

"That's a lot to do in a week," Fun Ghoul stated. "How 'bout if we just write a song, and we can learn and work out all the instruments together?" Everyone nodded their agreement, and Fun turned to Party and asked, "What did you have in mind?"

He smiled at all his friends before replying, "What do you think about bongo drums?"


	21. Places That You Never Want to Die

"Bright lights that won't kill me now, or tell me how. Just you and I, your starless eyes, remain." ~My Chemical Romance, "It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Deathwish"

Korse stared out of the hotel window at the rising sun. It was looking like a very nice day, or as nice as it got in the Zones, when the temperature mostly wavered somewhere around 110 Fahrenheit and the air was full of toxins. It was worth it, though, all the work and danger of tracking the Killjoy threat. What better way to give back to the company that had given him a purpose in life?

He remembered vividly how he'd wandered into the perfectly ordinary office in search of a job after the first 2012 fires. He had been lost in life, alone, and felt that there was so much more he could be doing to help the world than just sitting around drawing comics. Better Living Industries had not only gotten him a job, they'd offered him a chance to reinvent himself. Most places he'd worked at had merely ignored him, but BLI let him have a direct effect on what they did.

And what they did was mind-blowing. On the surface, they were a manufacturing company- they made antidepressants and other medications, as well as various laborsaving devices like the Laser ScissorsÔ - but their ideology went far beyond merely buying lots of neat things. They were on a mission to truly make every aspect of life better, and that meant major changes.

When the inevitable wars broke out, BLI used the chaos of the times as a way to show their true ability to fix the world's problems. They'd begun with a simple new marketing campaign: the guarantee that "we can fix you." Then they'd upped the production of medication, because those were trying times, and started construction on the safest buildings known to man. All the frightened people had flocked into the quickly growing Battery City, and, with plenty of money and a lot of dedication, BLI became the most stable company in all of history, a rock during the storm of warfare even as governments toppled around them.

They supplied the lost, lonely people with the means to have a decent life in the aftermath of the wars. There were just a few things the people would need to do in return. Firstly, they were encouraged to give up religion, because that only caused disagreements over who was going to Heaven and what god to worship, and all that. It confused things, and the people would be better off without it; most of those who had believed in God before now felt abandoned by Him, anyway. Secondly, the people were asked to give up a lot of cultural heritage. It might be asking a lot, but most culture-specific traditions, like festivals, served no purpose now that half the countries on Earth (or more) were complete wasteland. It didn't make sense to cling to the remnants of a dead society, especially when the new one being built was destined to be the greatest ever.

Korse had accepted all of this whole-heartedly, as he could see firsthand what problems cultural or political disagreements caused. They promoted nothing but hatred and anger, and BLI sought to replace all of it with love and happiness. What could be better? He had not only believed in everything this marvelous company came up with, he supported it enough to attain higher and higher positions in it, finally making his way to the Head of Security.

Battery City, the only city left standing in California after all the nuclear bombs fell, became BLI's masterpiece. It was pristine, perfect, everyone was happy. The only problem was the Killjoys.

These groups of rebels had decided that they were too good for such things as a little conformity or a little sacrifice for the sake of everyone. Oh no, they were going to fight back with neon and run rampant with self-expression. They were willing to go out in the desert, live like animals, like vermin, and for what? So they could write some songs and draw some pictures about how great they were?

Korse knew that they had it all wrong. BLI wasn't even against self-expression, as that was also a large part of having a fulfilling life, just as long as it didn't make you too flamboyant so you didn't bother anyone else. It was a little like trying to talk to someone across a canyon: if everybody started yelling at once, no one could be heard at all and you just wasted your breath. Everything in moderation, like people said. But the art-obsessed Killjoys insisted on complete freedom, complete anarchy.

Korse muttered a few words of thanks to the Battery City skyline, as he did every day in the Zones. He was so grateful to BLI for letting him do this job; he had come up with the title and role of Exterminator himself, once he saw how the Killjoys went about "expressing" their rebellious feelings through violence and vandalism. He had started a group consisting of the most dedicated BLI workers he knew to go out into the blasted sand, leave the comfort of Battery City, and fight for what they believed in. It was the most noble, meaningful thing Korse had ever done, and in fact, it was soon after his first Zonerun that he'd taken his name. The adoring crowds needed something to chant, after all, and he didn't want his old name and his old life to defile his medals.

Korse smiled, turned from the window, and surveyed the dingy motel room. There was a pathetic Killjoy corpse lying on the bed, its overzealous colored clothing stained by its own blood and burns from Korse's pure white laser blaster. Seated around the room, one reading the _Battery City Times_ and others listening to music, were his faithful Exterminators. They had followed him through firefights and bomb scares, and he wanted to reward his four most loyal underlings by letting them accompany him to the duel he was planning for next week, where they would make history and strike fear into the hearts of the foolish Killjoys after he killed their leader.

But right now he had a more pressing matter to attend to, and that was the health of his right-hand man, Leonard, who appeared to be waking up.

I'm alive

.

That was the first thought in his head as he returned to consciousness, and with the light searing his half-open eyes and mind, it was all he could handle right then.

The disappointment was overwhelming.

Sweet Revenge blinked and sat up, pressing a hand to his neck to keep the bandage in place- the little blue lifesaver he currently despised. His vision came into focus slowly, and he noted that he had ended up in a motel of some sort. It was the kind of trashy, run-down place (where the frayed curtains hung over the dusty windows like poisoned rain and the air had an ever-present stench of sweat) one only saw outside of Battery City. That was some consolation, then: They hadn't taken him back.

The Exterminators lounged around, waiting for something to do, and Sweet Revenge could see a dead Killjoy on the bed. He closed his eyes in disgust, but reopened them when Korse (who else would've dragged him back from self-bestowed death?) said, "He's still alive, you know."

"Who?" Leonard grumbled. Did he have to deal with anything else right now?

"The Killjoy you attacked last night. He's recovered, and now he and the other _fabulous_"- he sneered the word- "one are hiding out. You'll never guess who ended up helping them."

Sweet Revenge waited, not really caring about the latest news on who was a traitor and who wasn't, as he was the utmost example: He'd betrayed one side with a single laser blast, but he felt no connection to Korse and the Exterminators, either. Whatever had drawn him to BLI was gone, and all he had left was small talk and guilt.

"Andrea," Korse finally dropped the bombshell.

"What? Really?" Leonard tried to feign surprise; he was actually just shocked that Korse hadn't seen it coming sooner.

"She's in love with Party Poison," he spat. "The hopeless girl!" He ranted on about how the relationship would end terribly and Andrea would be sorry that she'd ever messed with such a nasty combination of things as love, the rebellion, and BLI. In fact, Korse would make sure that Andrea would rue the day she tangled with them; he'd kill Party Poison himself and blah blah.

Leonard smiled at this bravado, but not with the same admiration he had previously. "How do you plan to find him, exactly?" he asked, careful to keep his condescension to himself.

"They're obviously together at her base- that nice little radio station of hers. We tracked her cell phone back there," Korse replied. "I won't make the same mistake you did, charging in without a plan. I'm challenging their leader to a one-on-one duel, so we can finally settle this. And that's where you're going to help."

Sweet Revenge bristled at the accusation that his attack had failed- but realized suddenly that his gun had been set to "Stun" the whole time! That was why he was alive, and Fun Ghoul too. What a stupid blunder!

But his anger at himself dissipated when Korse detailed his plans, the first of which involved getting Leonard to write a formal invitation to the Killjoys, explaining the duel. It sounded like Korse had never listened to anything Leonard had told him, all the information he'd gathered with so much sacrifice. He didn't know that the "terrorist group" he sought to eliminate couldn't be gotten rid of by taking out Party Poison. He kept referring to his enemy as the "leader" of the Killjoys, which was false: Party was no more the leader than the dead guy in the bed. The Killjoys didn't _have_ a leader; that's why they were so effective. As long as there was one of them left, the rebellion would still be alive, and could come back like a bunch of cockroaches after fumigation.

Leonard had tried to explain this before, but would not do so again. If Korse still wanted to believe there was a simple solution to the mess he'd landed himself in, fine. Sweet Revenge would have no part of it.

Then Korse said something that made Leonard's cool apathy towards him vanish entirely. "You can come to the duel, of course, as long as you're feeling up to it. I wouldn't want my successor to feel like he'd be attending my funeral. Not that I'll be the one dying, but I don't want you there if you can't handle it."

"Can't handle what?" Leonard snapped.

Korse smirked. "Being responsible for the units if I should lose. I mean, you've been rather…self-serving lately, what with being the only _true_ BLI worker to escape that terrible raid. I heard you filmed that traitor and the Killjoy leader leaving the outpost, instead of attacking them or helping your fellow Exterminators out."

"What's your point?" Leonard tried to sound like he wasn't _this_ close to yelling at Korse.

"Well, I know that you're going through a bit of a rough spot, because of your extra medication, and I wanted to make sure you were strong and confident and ready for whatever job I need you to do."

_So he wants to know whether I'm a weakling, a traitor?_ Sweet Revenge thought bitterly. _How unfortunate, then, that I'm both. He'd fire me on the spot if he knew I gave myself this neck wound._

"I can take it." Leonard assured him.

"Good," Korse replied briskly. "I'll be glad to have you there. One more thing, though, Leonard. Would you help me get ready for that day- make sure everything's operating properly and all?"

He nodded, but he had one grievance he could freely air to his boss. "Please, when we get out among the rebels, would you call me by my Killjoy name?"

Korse chuckled. "Certainly, Sweet Revenge. That's very fitting, you know."

Oh, he knew it, all right. _Revenge indeed._


	22. Track 12

"Pink isn't well; he stayed back at the hotel, and they sent us along as a surrogate band." ~Pink Floyd, "In The Flesh"

The noon sun shone down harshly on the Trans-Am as it sped across the desert, approaching the place where its occupants' fates would be decided. Despite the painful anticipation each of them felt, they were mostly eager to get this over with (even in such an awfully clichéd way), and the tension was somewhat mitigated by the extra protection they carried- even Grace, sitting on Hot Chimp's lap like a toddler, had Fun Ghoul's revolver, which she had decorated in unicorn stickers.

Party Poison stopped the car as a small band of Dracs came into view, their car parked behind them, and, sure enough, Korse was there as well. He looked over at them with a cocky smile as they all got out and lined up. Party had to admit that his side didn't look very formidable, but he knew the Dracs would remember their past attacks; indeed, he was pleased to see that Korse's grin lost a bit of luster as he took in the fact that all his opponents were well-armed. If only he knew how many weapons they really carried- but that was Fun Ghoul's mastery: you couldn't tell what you were up against until it pulled sixteen knives out of its back pocket and stabbed you in the ribcage.

The Dracs had lined up as well, about twenty feet from the Killjoys, and each had brought at least one laser blaster, except for the one next to Korse, who carried a large black box. When Korse and Party stepped forward, the Drac walked between them and opened it. Inside were several types of weapons: lasers, knives, even some old-fashioned pistols.

Korse smirked even more. If Party hadn't known that to be his usual expression, he would've thought that his adversary was in danger of tearing a face muscle. "Pick your poison, Killjoy," Korse spat.

Party thought his enemy's eyes lingered on the guns, and in an attempt to not play into his hands, he reached into the box and selected a dagger with a wicked-looking six-inch blade. "Always wanted to shank you," he taunted, and predictably, Korse simply shook his head in exasperation.

"I hope your fighting's better than your music, or this'll be far too easy," he retorted, picking up a matching knife, and the Drac returned to the line with his fellows, all of whom were looking incredibly tense. Their leader might be too arrogant to acknowledge the threat posed by the Killjoys, but the Dracs were clearly a little more uncertain. This, and the leftover adrenaline from the sheer badassery of their battle song "Destroyah" (with an epically shiny bassline, courtesy of his wife's tendency to get more and more fantastic every day, and a pounding guitar riff that was still ringing in his ears), filled Party with sudden confidence. He was absolutely going to stab the bastard who had killed his brother, regardless of any wounds he might sustain in the process, or the fact that he was still woefully unskilled at knife fights.

They squared off, and spent the first few seconds just circling like a pair of vultures, testing for a weak point. Party, who had never enjoyed suspense, finally dashed forward and slashed at Korse's arm, and he dodged with ease, aiming a blow at Party's back, but he had expected that, and brought up his knife to parry. It didn't work as he had hoped: the blades struck together, glanced off, and Party winced as Korse's knife cut a little skin off his knuckles. He smiled after he straightened up and faced him again, when he saw that blood was trickling from his opponent's hand where he'd been hit in the palm.

Somebody on the sidelines gasped, Show Pony called, "All right! Get him!" and Korse charged forward with his blade pointed right at Party's face. The Killjoy ducked, slashed at Korse's side but missed, and staggered as Korse punched him in the ribs, hard. He backed up, pressing a hand to the spot, as Korse instantly spun back around and came at him again, this time aiming for his stomach. Party jumped aside, jerked his dagger wildly at his enemy's arm for good measure, and quickly brought his left fist up into Korse's face. His head snapped back, but he kept his footing and tried to hit Party in the ribs again, but Party had seen that coming; he brought his knife around and sliced into Korse's arm. They stepped back a second time, panting.

As they surveyed each other- Party had a few scratches and his side ached, but Korse was definitely in worse shape, with blood dripping from both arms and a nasty swelling starting in his face- the Drac who had carried the box called out, "It doesn't matter if you win, Korse."

His leader paid no attention, wisely keeping his guard up as Party continued to stare him down, but the Drac continued, "You'll just die anyway, especially since I didn't fill your oxygen tank this morning!"

Korse didn't react immediately, but his entourage did that for him: the other Dracs simultaneously whipped out their guns and trained them on the Drac who had spoken. He calmly reached up and removed his mask, and- _Shit, seriously?_ Party thought- revealed himself to be Sweet Revenge.

The other Killjoys trained their weapons on him a split second later, and Korse turned to the man he knew as Leonard and snarled, "What do you mean, you didn't fill it?"

Sweet Revenge still smiled contentedly, as though he were relaxing in a sauna and not about to be shot from every conceivable angle. "I mean that even if you win- which you won't; Fun's probably taught Party too well for you to defeat him- you'll still get some awfully bad diseases from this air, and if those don't kill you, I will." He glanced down at the box of weapons at his feet. "Bad move, you know, giving a traitor your guns."

Before Sweet Revenge could even start to bend down to the box, Korse had pulled a blaster from inside his coat and fired. Grace screamed, and Hot Chimp made a halfhearted attempt to cover the girl's eyes. As the Killjoy Party had once thought of as his friend collapsed onto the sand, something registered in Party's brain: Korse's gun was bright red, and the only person he knew with a blaster that color was Kobra Kid.

_So he has the nerve to use my own brother's gun in a fight?_ The words flashed through Party's mind along with intense rage, and he stopped caring about the fact that Korse now had two weapons and he only had a knife; he charged forward and slammed into Korse from the side, knocking them both into the dust.

He meant to stab his enemy as quickly as possible, but he had obviously not figured that Korse would be fast enough to both block the blow aimed at his head and to drive the hand with which he held Kobra's gun into Party's gut, throwing him off. In an instant, Korse had flipped him onto his back and had a knee pressed into his ribcage. He raised the dagger up to get leverage for the final strike-

- and a voice from above spoke and said "No." A shining silver blade pressed into Korse's neck. He glanced up, and, on seeing who was holding him at sword point, sighed, put down the dagger, and climbed off Party Poison, brushing sand off his jacket.

Party stood up shakily and looked into the face of a woman he had never met personally but had heard a great deal about: Airi Isoda, the head of BLI's security. She was a slight, almost frail-looking Japanese woman who carried an air of power about her that made her seem formidable in spite of her appearance. This was only magnified by the fact that she was currently holding the hilt of a sword that was digging into Korse's throat.

"What on Earth are you doing, Airi?" Korse snarled as he stood up, only to find that her blade remained inches from his windpipe.

Though all the Dracs now had their guns trained on her, Airi did not flinch. She narrowed her eyes and replied, "Someone had to stop you. You just broke the rules of the duel."

Korse blinked in confusion, before saying, "What rules?"

"The rules that state that each participant is to use only one weapon," she said, glancing down at the laser gun Korse still clutched.

"That was never a rule! I wrote the rules, and that wasn't one of them!" Korse spluttered desperately, eyes widening in fear.

He tried to turn around to face her, but Airi put a hand on his shoulder to hold him still and continued, as though enjoying this, "The duel was supposed to be an even match between you and the Killjoy, each with identical weapons. In bringing a second, you undermined the fairness and thus broke the rules."

Party resisted the urge to yell, "Damn right!" and instead smiled tentatively as he watched the argument between Korse and his underling.

"They had extra weapons too!" Korse snapped. "I guarantee you he's got a gun of his own."

"He probably has, but he didn't use it," Airi replied. "He didn't fire it in the middle of the duel."

Korse continued to splutter, mouthing something that looked like a mix of counterarguments and swear words.

"Therefore, according to the unwritten rule of guaranteed fairness that binds all duels, you cheated and so forfeit. The Killjoys win."

All the Killjoys burst into cheers at this as the ones on the sidelines ran forward and hugged Party and each other and themselves. But in the center of the circle, the talk continued.

"According to the rules of the duel that you did write, 'the winner will decide the fate of any reinforcements brought by the other side.'" Airi recited, releasing Korse's shoulder and dropping the _katana _blade from his neck. She turned to Party. "What'll it be then?"

"Uh," Party replied intelligently. He hadn't been expecting that any of this would go the way it had, and was at a loss for words.

"We want Sweet Revenge's body," Fun Ghoul said. "We'll give him a proper send-off."

"But he shot you!" protested Show Pony.

"He just died for us, in case you hadn't noticed," Fun replied grimly. "He deserves a Killjoy's funeral." That settled it.

"The rest of the Dracs are free to go wherever, then," Party said, finding his voice. "We don't have any issues with them, unless they attack us, of course." He amended with a sharp look at the Dracs. They all looked relieved to be spared, however, and it seemed revenge was the last thing on their minds.

Party glared at Korse, tightening his grip on his knife. "And as for you…"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, now, little Killjoy," Korse said quietly. He seemed to have regained some of his poise now that he wasn't in immediate danger of dying. "The rules only said you could decide what happens to the reinforcements, not your opponent. You have no jurisdiction over my fate." He smirked at his own intelligence, though not as widely as before, and turned to walk back to his car, the Dracs following behind.

"Wow," Show Pony remarked. "That was a nice use of loopholes for such a stupid motherfucker." This was greeted with some chuckles from the group, but Party didn't laugh along with them.

_So that's it, then,_ he thought dully, the dagger slipping from his hand and dropping into the dust. _All that work and planning and I didn't even get Kobra's gun back…_

He jumped a little when he saw that Airi was coming back towards them, holding a laser blaster. As she got closer, he could see that it was the very same gun that weighed heavy on his thoughts. She held it up, and they all flinched, except Hot Chimp, who for some reason was smiling.

"Here," Airi said curtly, turning the gun around and offering it to Party Poison. "Korse has no use for this Zonerat garbage."

He took it, but its too-familiar shape and dusty red paint only impressed upon him how much he missed Kobra; he knew his brother would never have let their greatest enemy just walk off like that.

Airi reached into her pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope, which Party took and stared at blankly. "It's a list of the outpost locations, as per the deal."

He nodded, dimly acknowledging the fact that all these would be good for was starting a fire if they were stranded in the surprisingly cold desert night.

Airi leaned in even closer and whispered, "Don't worry; I'll be happy to help finish him off. And so you don't end up like him, remember: if the air starts to smell like limeade, evacuate immediately." She winked and walked away.

Party couldn't stop his mouth from falling open in shock as he registered where that phrase had come from, how the only person to say anything like it had- he thought- been killed ages ago…

Dr. Death Defying was having a similar reaction. He stared after her for a second, then managed to choke out, "News…?"

Hot Chimp elbowed them both to shut them up, but the grin on her face (the kind he hadn't seen since 2011, when they were working on the fourth album and everything was alright) told him that he had one less Killjoy to mourn.

And if he had anything to say about it, her help wouldn't go to waste. If they couldn't use the outposts, they'd at least broadcast their locations to let other Killjoys know where to avoid or what to attack, if they wanted. If she was really about to finish Korse off, he was glad he'd gotten a couple nice slashes at the bastard before he went down, and the look on his face when he'd heard that the Killjoys had won!

Party realized that the best revenge, though, would be the total defeat of BLI.

The Killjoys blasted "Destroyah" the whole way back.


	23. An Alibi

"There's a spy in the sky, there's a noise on the wire, there's a tap on the line; for every paranoid's desire: there's always someone lookin' at you." ~The Boomtown Rats, "Someone's Looking At You"

Unlike other Better Living Industries employees, Airi remembered vividly what her life had been like before her indoctrination. She remembered the times she'd coordinated raids on the patrol units she now directed, when she had Zonehopped freely without a care or worry in the world, excepting the toxic fumes in the air that, in spite of her company's treatments and special oxygen tubes to prevent "Zone Sickness," scared the life out of her. But most of all, she remembered that her name had been NewsAGoGo and that she had once had friends.

She didn't resent BLI for kidnapping her; she knew that they had to get more Exterminators somehow, after all, and they had been nice enough to get her a good job and even a specially engraved _katana_ that was completely shi- wonderful. She didn't mind that they had faked her death, though she knew all the worry it had caused the remaining Killjoys.

But when they captured one of the Killjoys she'd once known, brainwashed him (the only word for his total lack of usual feisty, in-your-face attitude), and made him work in the same office as her, no matter how many times they said that the aftermath was secondary, she thought that was going a bit far.

And after the raid by none other than the Fabulous Killjoys her office was trying so hard to track down, when Korse had berated her for "letting them get away" even though it was his own damn fault for not having Exterminators that could actually hit the broad side of a warehouse, her friend was dead.

He was reported a "casualty of war and a victim of terrorist violence," though Airi had seen the look of shock and horror on the Killjoy leader's face when he unmasked the Drac and found someone he knew, but by then it was too late: Party had already pulled the trigger, and the man had instantaneously died of internal combustion. They had buried him a few days later in the desert, but without a funeral service because religious beliefs were not allowed- "strongly discouraged," they'd said, but Airi knew what they meant.

Secretly, she had visited the place and, technically violating about seven different rules of her contract, said a traditional Japanese prayer for him. And she had returned to work with eyes as dry as always, and set herself the task of figuring out Andrea.

She had known from the start that Andrea was not like the other Exterminators: the woman moved, talked, and acted faster and more deliberately than they did in their clouded stupors of dependence. They needed BLI to tell them what to say, think, feel, and do, but not Andrea. It was obvious that she wasn't taking any of her medications, but the question was, why?

Airi found the answer one day while driving out to an outpost in Zone 4 to make a routine security check. She was flipping absently through the radio channels when she heard a familiar voice. She froze in shock, listening intently to the radio. It was undoubtedly Andrea; Airi had heard her voice far too often, as she was the most talkative one in the office, to not recognize it.

"I gotta burn rubber for now, motorbabes, but I'll be bringin' you some more sounds to live by soon enough. DJ Hot Chimp, signing off."

The rest of the mission went by in a blur. Airi was just going through the motions, her mind on her discovery. She'd known that Andrea ran a mock radio station for a while, but nothing more than that. This was huge. It changed everything Airi had thought about her co-worker.

The next week, she'd recorded a series of vocal bits in her native language, the sort of things she would've said had she still been running a radio station of her own. She'd translated it, too, and given both to Andrea as casually as possible. Airi knew that this was also against the rules of her contract, but she figured that no one would get it if it was in another language, and besides, she knew that Andrea- please, please let her really be Hot Chimp- would keep it safe. Anyway, she could always pass it off as a trap.

And now, here was proof of all that Airi had hoped for, sitting in front of her and fidgeting with her ring under the table. She'd thought that DJ Hot Chimp would have an answer for any question, a way out of the seemingly unwinnable situation Airi had trapped her in, but evidently not. So Airi pulled up a browser window on her computer, and with a few keystrokes, turned off the security feed for the room.

"I'll make this quick," she said, and the barely contained excitement in her voice made Andrea look up in confusion and worry. "I can only disable the cameras for a little while."

She smiled, honestly this time, and continued, "Hot Chimp, you are in dire straits, aren't you?" The woman gave a tiny smirk at the sound of her third alias; Airi took it as a confirmation. "If I were you, I think it'd be best to take my new motorbike"- she pulled the keys from her pocket and set them on the table between them- "and go make sure my husband's okay."

Hot Chimp looked stunned by this sudden turn of events, but replied sensibly, "Right, so you can ambush me? You already know I'm a Killjoy, and I'm sure you know the location of my hideout. Why should I trust you?"

She had a very good point, and Airi decided to risk it. "You were friends with James Euringer once."

Hot Chimp frowned at the change of subject, but answered, "Yes, I was in a band with Jimmy before all of this." She glanced around, indicating the office, the whole building, the state of the world. "We were on the run together for a while, too, but then he was killed," she explained as her face fell. "Why do you ask?" Hot Chimp's irritation had returned in full force.

"I was just remembering," Airi said. "I was thinking about how, on his death certificate- " she bypassed the momentary sting she still felt "- they spelled his Killjoy name with a y, not an i. Cherri Cola would've killed them for it." She waited for her words to take effect.

A moment passed in utter silence, and then Hot Chimp gasped, "News? Is it really- but, it can't be- I-wha-_you're alive!_"

Airi nodded at her old friend, and, feeling sad that they didn't have time for a proper reunion, said, "Time's running out, Hot Chimp. You have to go save Party, you know."

"Right, right," she said, and pocketed the keys on the table, full of a new energy. "But wait, we still have the rest of that interview thing. If I recall correctly, you had checkmated me."

"Keep in mind that Korse and the others would put nothing past the Killjoys."

She switched the camera feed back on (she'd blame the blackout on faulty wiring later; it had happened often enough for real) and said, "Sorry, we lost the security feed for a second there. Could you repeat that?"

Andrea responded with the most excellent lies Airi had heard today, blaming the "enemy terrorists" for the attack and her clingy ex-husband- "that creep," she shuddered with perfect timing- for the whole ordeal.

Hot Chimp waved on her way out, and, even though it went against everything BLI stood for, NewsAGoGo smiled and waved back.


	24. Track 13

"Today I walked down our old street, past the diner where we'd meet. Now I dine alone in our old seats." ~Billy Talent, "White Sparrows"

They had gathered Sweet Revenge's body and loaded him into the car with a solemnity that masked the growing relief they felt. Party had survived; so had Korse, but it sounded like their old friend would be taking care of that shortly. It was with hope for the future, then, that they returned to the old diner off Route Guano.

No one moved to unpack their things; it was an unspoken agreement that they were leaving as soon as possible since they were now on the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's radar. In fact they had practically nothing at the diner, having moved all the important things they could find over to Hot Chimp's hideout, where it was packed into the van. They'd be going there in a couple days to leave with all their stuff. There were just a few things they needed to do first.

Sweet Revenge needed a funeral, and thanks to Fun Ghoul, they were the ones that had to do it. That was really just a joking complaint, though; deep down all the Killjoys agreed that the man who had sacrificed his life for them should be honored. They gave him that honor in the only way they could: by setting his body on fire while playing music. It was unceremonious by any standards, but Party Poison, who had come up with the idea, was sure he would've liked it.

Out of sentimentality, what was left of My Chemical Romance retrieved their instruments from Hot Chimp's hideout and by way of ingenuity and a lot of spare extension cords, managed to bring a guitar and mic outside in back of the gas station to play "Helena" for the funeral. Sweet Revenge had once said that it was his favorite, and somebody remembered that he looked a little like that kid from the "Helena" video.

Fun Ghoul played and Party Poison sung, and the result was a stripped-down version of the song that sounded good not because of any technical skills on either of their parts but the emotion they conveyed. By the time it was done, and the body had burnt to little more than a pile of glowing ashes, everyone present could feel the peculiar combination of sadness at the loss of a friend and satisfaction that they had said goodbye.

The Killjoys' next priority was to make graves for their fallen friends.

It was not as hard as it seemed to find abandoned mailboxes in the middle of the desert; they were pretty close to what had once been a suburban area- "pretty close" meaning within an hour's drive- and as such there were maybe five or six mailboxes within a radius of ten miles. As they only needed four, this proved to be one of the easiest foraging missions they'd been on in a while.

This was made even easier by the conspicuous lack of Dracs anywhere. It was almost creepy how they'd stopped showing up, but Dr. Death later informed the group that most of the Drac patrols had been reassigned to points much closer to Battery City while a high-profile murder trial was taking place.

They found enough boxes within three days, and then set about the lengthy process of decorating them. This was simple enough for Sweet Revenge and Adrenaline Angel, both of whom no one alive could say they'd really known. But for Jet and Kobra- or to be more exact, Ray and Mikey- deciding what to put on their tombstones was a nearly impossible task.

Fun Ghoul found himself envying people with normal headstones: all they had to do was to pick something that sounded nice and was short enough to fit, an often stereotypical saying like "loving husband" or "caring woman who will be missed." As he and Party Poison, determined not to resort to such conventional bullshit, worked hours on end, going through inside jokes, witty sayings, and endless, endless old memories, Fun began to realize just how hard it was to sum up a life in four walls and a mail slot.

Then there was the problem of what to do with Ray's guitar: should they burn it, keep it, or leave it at the grave? Fun Ghoul finally decided he'd take care of it and play on it occasionally so as to make sure he never forgot his best friend.

That alone was still an odd thought for him. The idea that Ray was gone didn't make any sense. How could he be dead?

Their time was spent in a haze of heat and paint fumes, with the occasional outbreak of crying, or a fit of bittersweet laughter at all those "one times." The day they put the last touches on Jet's mailbox (a detailing of his favorite guitar, down to the fret markers), they reached an unspoken consensus that they were done. It was just in time, too, as the sun was beginning to set. The Killjoys went inside for a snack, or to curl up on the sofa, and Fun Ghoul was left alone next to the mailbox.

They had placed it on Jet Star's favorite sand dune, the one out back that had the best view of the stars. Struck with a memory, Fun Ghoul jumped up and raced inside to get his friend's guitar.

He arrived back in the same spot a few minutes later, and got to work setting up the amp and tuning. The sun had set by then, and the first few stars were flicking into view. They were always easy to see because the Killjoys were so far from the electric lights of the city.

With one leg bent at the knee to support his guitar and the other folded underneath him, his back gradually sliding down the slick surface of the mailbox, Frank played "Bulletproof Heart." Or he tried to.

The guitar part wasn't difficult, as he'd helped write it for the fourth album and most of the chordwork was unchanged. The problem was that as he strummed each chord, he couldn't help but feel like something was missing. He was sure the amp settings were correct, the tuning was a perfect half-step down on every string, and that he was playing the song the way it should be, but it still sounded wrong…

Halfway through the first verse it hit him: it sounded off because he was alone. Not just alone, as in playing only one guitar, but more alone than he could remember feeling in his life since his best friend Ray wasn't with him. It was corny and stupid, but Frank knew that if his guitar parts weren't right without his friend, none of him was right.

He thought he could just wing the lead part of the solo and call it good, but Ray always wrote the hardest solos, like a weird mix of Brian May, every combination of hammer-ons and pull-offs humanly possible, and slides and walkdowns that would leave you stuck fourteen frets and three strings higher than where you had to be next, all played six hundred times faster than made any damn sense…His fingers slipped and he completely fucked up the solo, but that was because of Ray's ridiculously complicated guitar parts and _not_ because he was trembling.

_Dammit_, Frank thought as he felt tears well up in his eyes. He hadn't cried in years, not since he'd seen the wreckage of his old house and realize what must've happened to his wife…his kids.

Before he knew what was going on, Frank fell sideways into the sand, Ray's guitar strap slipped off his shoulder, and he sobbed uncontrollably while the amp made a few discordant buzzes and fell silent. He gagged and choked and wanted to scream until his throat ripped in two. He desperately needed to hit something, to jump off a cliff, to curl up in the sand and never move again, whatever he had to do to stop thinking the thing that he wished more than anything wasn't true.

Ray was dead.

Ray was never coming back.

Frank hugged his knees to his chest, his tears running into the sand next to Ray's favorite guitar, as the night spread over him.

As the last flickers of red and orange sunlight sank beneath the dunes, Party Poison stepped out onto the front porch for a smoke. He'd been working practically non-stop on Jet's tombstone all day and he was tired, his hands ached, and he reeked of paint.

Unfortunately, about six yards away from the porch was where they'd put Kobra Kid's grave, and that hindered Party's attempts to relax. Try as he might to not remember, he couldn't help but think of all the good times he'd had with his brother. There were too many to count, but a few stuck out here and there in his mind, sharp as knives and painfully sad: the way they always used to walk with their arms around each other's shoulders backstage after concerts; how Mikey had liked to wear his glasses far down on his nose and tilted his head back to look through them; the time Mikey had asked the audience at a concert, with the air of utmost importance, if his Black Parade jacket made him look like Darth Vader, which was stupid because he looked way more like Darth Maul (the thought of how his brother would've given him a grudging half-smile at their nerdy argument just made Gerard feel worse). There was the time Kobra Kid had tried to punch out Sweet Revenge- who Gerard also missed, now that he thought of it- and the day they'd broken out of jail and Mikey had fallen asleep on Gerard in the van, both of them smiling in relief and freedom. And further in the past and steeped in more nostalgia were the days they'd spent as teenagers, listening to Iron Maiden and reading comic books in their room…

Party Poison snapped out of his thoughts as he saw Fun Ghoul walking down the hill toward him, carrying a guitar. As Fun walked under the porch light, Party could see that his face was streaked with tears. Party raised an eyebrow, concerned, but Fun said nothing as he went into the diner and reemerged guitar-less a few minutes later, lit a cigarette, and stood next to him.

They were silent for awhile, gazing into the swirls of smoke and contentedly breathing in each other's poisons. More to distract himself from thinking than anything, Party announced, "I'm gonna quit smoking."

He'd expected Fun Ghoul to either laugh at him or give him a pat on the back and applaud his idea- any sort of strong reaction, really. But Fun just flicked a bit of ash off his own cigarette, made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat, and asked, "Why?" in a voice that held only token interest.

"Um," Party began. "Let's see…lung cancer, every other kind of cancer, emphysema, uh, cigarettes are expensive, we'll give other people cancer too…and yeah." He figured those reasons were enough to start with.

Fun Ghoul chuckled, as his friend reiterated all the things they'd had flung at them over the years and ignored together. "All right, fine. So will I," he said in surrender, and marched over to the trash can, where he ground out his cigarette and threw it, his lighter, and the other pack he was carrying in his vest pocket away. He turned back to Party and said, "But I'm only doing this so you don't have to make a mailbox for me, too."

Party resisted pointing out that they were far more likely to die from Dracs or radiation poisoning than cancer, because he was glad to have Frankie to rely on. Instead he pointed out, with a glance at the trash can, " I was kinda thinking we could quit slowly, like, wean ourselves, at least until we can get some patches or something…"

"Oh," Fun replied with a sheepish grin. "Right."

Party Poison rolled his eyes, and gave Fun what was left of his cigarette.

A few minutes later, as he lapsed back into his thoughts, Party wished he still had it because then he could pretend that the stifled, throat-cutting noise that came out of him was a cough and not a sob.


	25. This Riddle of Revenge

"Brothas and sistas! Sons and daughters of nothing! Don't dot your I's! Fuck paragraphs and complete sentences! Don't let them control you!" ~Tweeted by NewsAGoGo on September 12, 2019

The two little white pills sat harmlessly on the linen napkin. Airi surveyed them, lifting one up and rolling it absentmindedly between her fingers, before replacing it and picking up the tray.

This could only be attempted once, so she had to be careful.

And if there was one thing NewsAGoGo prided herself on, it was doing what needed to be done, and doing it well the first time.

Airi walked a short distance down the hospital hallway, toward the door of her superior's room. Then she paused and doubled back like she realized she'd forgotten something. Quickly, she ducked into the alcove in front of the toilets where the water fountains were. She set the tray on the back of one of the fountains and filled the tiny plastic cup.

Then, hunched over the tray so as to avoid the security cameras littering the ceiling, News peeled open the first of the pills, separating the capsule into halves.

What to do with the drugs? She couldn't dump them in the fountains, lest someone detect residue and put the pieces together. For the same reason, throwing them in the trash was out. The quickest and easiest thing to do was to take them herself, and so, cringing slightly, she swallowed the contents of both pills.

The burning sensation that shot through her reminded her why she'd stopped taking these pills in the first place. The outside of the capsule was supposed to keep the worst of it out of one's throat, but it still hurt almost as much with it than without. News gagged at the bitter aftertaste, and started chugging water to get it out of her mouth.

She straightened up a few seconds later after fixing the second pill, took a deep breath, and carried the tray through the door into Korse's room.

He was lying in the only bed, having received a private room, and sat up as Airi came in. He was looking a bit better, much to her dismay: the color was coming back into his face and he hadn't had a coughing fit for several days. "Hello, Airy," he greeted- mispronouncing her name, as usual.

"Hello, Korse," she replied. "I brought your medicine." She brandished the tray at him, and as he rested it on his lap, glanced around at the camera mounted near the ceiling. The light was off, meaning it wasn't working, just as she'd planned.

News repressed a grin (the drugs were starting to make her feel more optimistic already) as her boss downed each of the pills, filled with white powder identical to what she'd ingested.

Superficially identical, at least.

"Korse," News began, smiling sweetly. "I never got the chance to tell you two things." At his questioning glance, she went on, "First, my name's pronounced 'aylee,' not how you've always said it; you could've at least looked up basic Japanese syllable structure before you hired me."

Korse looked almost affronted at her criticism, and tried to say something, but she didn't wait to hear if it was apologetic or angry; she continued, "And second…"

NewsAGoGo broke into an honest smile at the sound of Korse's increasingly labored breathing. "…When you meet Cherri Cola in Hell, tell him I said, 'hi.'"

Her boss's eyes widened in shock and the inevitable realization that she had been a traitor all along. But his toxin-weakened state, combined with the fast-acting poison spreading through him, rendered him helpless to do anything but stare at her, psychic horror reflected in his eyes.

As the convulsions began, News leaned in and whispered, "_Sayonara._"

She waited a full ten minutes by the corpse's bedside before pressing the button to call for help. The second action the doctors took, after checking Korse's vitals and finding him dead, was to call the police to arrest her. She didn't mind, though. The aftermath was, after all, secondary.

And she'd hidden the evidence, anyway.


	26. Track 14

"Everyone! The car has a full tank, so we're packing the explosives in a suitcase. Life is short, and there are many dangers on the roads we travel, so let's dance!" ~Translation of the introduction of "Party Poison"

As the last notes of "The Kids from Yesterday" faded away, I looked over to the booths and saw Grace crying silently into Show Pony's shoulder as tears streamed down his face. I shook my head sadly and tried to find a way to comfort them, and all the rest of us.

"All right, children, the lights are out and the party's over," I explained, hoping more than ever that it was true. I'd heard that Airi Isoda had gone rogue and apparently dusted Korse; she had gotten off on a technicality that she had obviously planned from the beginning. While she hadn't taken his place as head Exterminator, she was in charge of patrols, coordinating and overseeing them, and I'd recently received a message from Zone 4 broadcast by one NewsAGoGo.

Clearly, she was still kickin' and breathin'.

But I had business of my own to attend to now. "It's time for me, Dr. D, to start runnin' and say goodbye,"- we'd escape out to someplace in Zone 3, where I'd heard there was a good source of supplies and some clear channels- "for a little while," I added, so no one would think I was gone for good. Of course I wasn't.

"And I know you're gonna miss me, so I'll leave you with this." When I said that, it wasn't just to the people listening out in the dust; it was to my all friends who had been dusted: Joey, back in the 29th Battalion of the 2013 Helium Wars; Cherri Cola, who'd formed a band with me a long, long time ago; and Jet Star and Kobra Kid, my apocalypse buddies. I was gonna miss them too, dammit.

I'd planned to say this at the funeral, but since we'd never had a formal one for Jet and Kobra, I might as well say it now. "You know that big ball of radiation we call the sun? Well, it'll burst you into flames if you stay in one place too long. That is, if the static don't get ya first. So remember, even if you're dusted, _you_ may be gone, but out here in the desert, your shadow lives on without you." That actually didn't sound too corny.

"This is Dr. Death Defying, signing off." Whew.

I clicked off the mic, but then Hot Chimp, from her perch next to me, flipped a couple switches and stuck something into the old cassette player. A scratchy instrumental version of the national anthem started to play. I raised an eyebrow at her; what the heck was she doing?

Party Poison seemed to be wondering the same thing. Standing up, he said, "Lindsey, what the fuck? This is no time to be patriotic! America doesn't even exist anymore; why would we- "

She held up her hand to silence him, and said, "Hey, hey. I'm gonna be genius. Just wait."

He sighed, but sat back down.

Trusting that DJ Hot Chimp had some kinda clever plan, I settled back too, and sure enough, as the song built up to the last note on what would be the word "brave," she reached over and yanked out the input cable for the cassette player.

Everyone, including Hot Chimp, flinched at the screeching noise that came out of the speakers, sounding like someone was mutilating a guitar and killing a cat at the same time. I was sitting right next to the speakers, so I got the full blast, but while I winced and covered my ears, I laughed at how genius she was.

After an hour of work, we managed to load all the stuff we'd used for the broadcast into the trunk of the Trans-Am. After another ten minutes of arguing, we'd finally decided who would get the window seats and who would drive. I wasn't looking forward to the cramped drive over to our second hideout to pick up the van, but then Fun Ghoul walked out with a last box of junk and announced that he was going to ride Kobra Kid's old stolen motorbike, the one we'd used in the attack on the Bus. That gave those of us in the backseat a little room to spread out, which hopefully meant that Show Pony wouldn't be able to fall asleep on my shoulder again.

As we were about to take off, Party Poison suddenly said he'd forgotten something and went back in. I rolled my eyes impatiently; we'd stayed here long enough already. But he returned in seconds with a CD, which he popped into the car's stereo and cranked up. It was "Vampire Money," which I thought was one of the best songs on the album 'cause of its sarcasm and total "fuck-off" attitude. I hadn't played it at the listening party since I couldn't find a place to put it without interrupting the story we were trying to tell.

It definitely worked for right here and now, though.

Party started the car, Fun Ghoul revved the engine on what was now his motorbike, Show Pony put his arms around both me and Grace (I let him, for once), and I turned around for one last look at the diner. We'd contaminated it, all right; every inch of its walls was coated in graffiti. And beyond the diner, just visible next to the road, were the tombstones of Grace's mother, Adrenaline Angel, Sweet Revenge, and of course Jet Star and Kobra Kid.

I could see nothing else to do, so I saluted our friends' graves. Fun Ghoul drove up beside us on his bike, which he'd repainted with shiny red cobra logos, and suddenly shouted and popped a perfect wheelie. I chuckled at him, and for once didn't mind getting one-upped.

In a haze of road dust and rock music, the rest of us Fabulous Killjoys drove off towards a future that was positively dangerous.


	27. Alternate Ending

"I have a new dream where everything is perfect: the sky is pink, yellow, green, blue, and orange, and all the past has been forgotten, and we fell in love." ~Pencey Prep, "Trying to Escape the Inevitable"

The noon sun shone down harshly on the Trans-Am as it sped across the desert, approaching the place where its occupants' fates would be decided. Despite the painful anticipation each of them felt, they were mostly eager to get this over with (even in such an awfully clichéd way), and the tension was somewhat mitigated by the extra protection they carried- even Grace, sitting on Hot Chimp's lap like a toddler, had Fun Ghoul's revolver, which she had decorated in unicorn stickers.

Party Poison stopped the car as a small band of Dracs came into view, their car parked behind them, and, sure enough, Korse was there as well. He looked over at them with a cocky smile as they all got out and lined up. Party had to admit that his side didn't look very formidable, but he knew the Dracs would remember their past attacks; indeed, he was pleased to see that Korse's grin lost a bit of luster as he took in the fact that all his opponents were well-armed. If only he knew how many weapons they really carried- but that was Fun Ghoul's mastery: you couldn't tell what you were up against until it pulled sixteen knives out of its back pocket and stabbed you in the ribcage.

The Dracs had lined up as well, about twenty feet from the Killjoys, and each had brought at least one laser blaster, except for the one next to Korse, who carried a large black box. When Korse and Party stepped forward, the Drac walked between them and opened it. Inside were several types of weapons: lasers, knives, even some pistols.

Korse smirked even more. If Party hadn't known that to be his usual expression, he would've thought that Korse was in danger of tearing a face muscle. "Pick your poison, Killjoy," Korse spat.

Party thought hiss enemy's eyes lingered on the guns, and in an attempt to not play into his hands, he reached into the box and selected a dagger with a wicked-looking six-inch blade. "Always wanted to shank you," He taunted, and predictably, Korse simply shook his head in exasperation.

"I hope your fighting's better than your music, or this'll be far too easy," He retorted, picking up a matching knife, and the Drac returned to the line with his fellows, all of whom were looking incredibly tense. Their leader might be too arrogant to acknowledge the threat posed by the Killjoys, but the Dracs were clearly a little more uncertain. This, and the leftover adrenaline from the sheer badassery of their battle song "Destroyah" (with an epically shiny bassline, courtesy of his wife's tendency to get more and more fantastic every day, and a pounding guitar riff that was still ringing in his ears), filled Party with sudden confidence. He was absolutely going to stab the bastard who had killed his brother, regardless of any wounds he might sustain in the process, or the fact that he was still woefully unskilled at knife fights.

They squared off, and spent the first few seconds just circling like a pair of vultures, testing for a weak point. Party, who had never enjoyed suspense, finally dashed forward and slashed at Korse's arm, and he dodged with ease, aiming a blow at Party's back, but he had expected that, and brought up his knife to parry. It didn't work as he had hoped; the blades struck together, glanced off, and Party winced as Korse's knife cut a little skin off his knuckles. He smiled after he straightened up and faced him again, when he saw that blood was trickling from his opponent's hand where he'd been hit in the palm.

Somebody on the sidelines gasped, Show Pony called, "All right! Get him!" and Korse charged forward with his blade pointed right at Party's face. The Killjoy ducked, slashed at Korse's side but missed, and staggered as Korse punched him in the ribs, hard. He backed up, pressing a hand to the spot, as Korse instantly spun back around and came at him again, this time aiming for his stomach. Party jumped aside, jerked his dagger wildly at his enemy's arm for good measure, and quickly brought his left fist up into Korse's face. His head snapped back, but he kept his footing and tried to hit Party in the ribs again, but Party had seen that coming; he brought his knife around and sliced into Korse's arm. They stepped back a second time, panting.

As they surveyed each other- Party had a few scratches and his side ached, but Korse was definitely in worse shape, with blood dripping from both arms and a nasty swelling starting in his face- the Drac who had carried the box called out, "It doesn't matter if you win, Korse."

His leader paid no attention, as he wisely kept his guard up as Party continued to stare him down, but the Drac continued, "You'll just die anyway, especially since I didn't fill your oxygen tank this morning!"

Korse didn't react immediately, but his entourage did that for him: the other Dracs simultaneously whipped out their guns and trained them on the Drac who had spoken. He calmly reached up and removed his mask, and- _Shit, seriously?_ Party thought- revealed himself to be Sweet Revenge.

The other Killjoys trained their weapons on him a split second later, and Korse turned to the man he knew as Leonard and snarled, "What do you mean, you didn't fill it?"

Sweet Revenge still smiled contentedly, as though he were relaxing in a sauna and not about to be shot from every conceivable angle. "I mean that even if you win- which you won't; Fun's probably taught Party too well for you to defeat him- you'll still get some awfully bad diseases from this air, and if those don't kill you, I will." He glanced down at the box of weapons at his feet. "Bad move, you know, giving a traitor your guns."

Before Sweet Revenge could even start to bend down to the box, Korse had pulled a blaster from inside his coat and fired. As the Killjoy Party had once thought of as his friend collapsed onto the sand, something registered in Party's brain: Korse's gun was bright red, and the only person he knew with a blaster that color was Kobra Kid.

_So he has the nerve to use my own brother's gun in a fight?_ The words flashed through Party's mind along with intense rage, and he stopped caring about the fact that Korse now had two weapons and he only had a knife; he charged forward and slammed into Korse from the side, knocking them both into the dust.

He meant to stab his enemy as quickly as possible, but he had obviously not figured that Korse would be fast enough to both block the blow aimed at his head and to drive the hand with which he held Kobra's gun into Party's gut, throwing him off. In an instant, Korse had flipped him onto his back and had a knee pressed into his ribcage. He raised the dagger up to get leverage for the final strike-

- and then a voice behind Korse said "Oh no you don't!" and the Exterminator's eyes widened in shock and pain as the knife slipped from his grasp and fell harmlessly into the sand next to Party's head, and Korse keeled over, twitching.

Party Poison got to his feet shakily and looked into the beaming face of his brother, who was dressed in a Drac outfit, holding a mask in one hand and a gun in the other, and looking extremely pleased with himself. Kobra walked over to Korse, who was still breathing feebly on the ground, wrenched his laser blaster out of his hand, and whispered, "_Burn._" Then Kobra shot him in the head.

The Killjoys on the sidelines exploded with cheering and rushed forward, all of them trying to hug Kobra Kid at once. He fended them off and embraced Party Poison, who couldn't decide whether to laugh hysterically or collapse. He settled for stating, "But you died, Kobra. Or…did you? How are you here?"

Kobra chuckled, a sound that Party hadn't heard in forever (the three days of his life that he thought he'd never see his brother again counted as forever), and replied, "Of course I died. Jet and I were shot in the heads. But it's like we always said: Killjoys never die."

Seventeen people started asking questions all at once, then everyone shut up as a second Drac cleared its throat, stepped forward and said, "Damn right we don't die. That's why I'm still here too." And he pulled off his mask to reveal that he was Jet Star.

He was surrounded by the Killjoys as well, and welcomed back with cheers and an equal amount of questioning. Finally the two presumed-dead Killjoys ceased the endless interrogations by saying, "Okay, everybody shut up and we'll tell you what happened." They all formed a ring around Jet Star and Kobra Kid and settled down, eager to hear how the two had survived.

And Jet Star began, "Well, we were coming back from a trip to the gas station and had just given Sweet Revenge a preview of our new songs- " but he broke off as a collective wince emanated from his friends.

Kobra took over. "Look, we heard about Sweet Revenge too, and we know even more of what happened than you do. Yes, he was working for BLI, but he was one of us the whole time."

"He shot me!" Fun Ghoul protested loudly, rubbing his neck in the spot that had been burned.

"Yes, and then he shot himself," replied Jet Star, with the air of someone informing the world of a national tragedy. "We found him and took him to Korse to be healed, disguised as Dracs of course, because he wasn't meant to die."

"Uh, news flash! He _is _dead!" Show Pony interjected, gesturing to Sweet Revenge's body where it lay, still smoking, on the ground.

"Wait, why'd he shoot himself?" Party Poison asked, torn between jubilation and concern.

"Because he betrayed you and couldn't take the guilt," Kobra explained. "And he isn't dead," He added.

"Stunned," Jet said. "We switched the settings on Korse's gun before this duel, and on Sweet Revenge's too, before he attacked you all at the diner. We made it so that he couldn't kill any of you, not even himself. He'll wake up in a few hours and then we can show him that there are people in this world who care about him."

There was silence as the weight of the revelations sank into everyone's minds.

Finally Dr. Death Defying asked, "But how did you survive in the first place? I heard that you were killed on Route Guano, and I made an announcement to all the Killjoys…"

Jet smiled. "Oh, we heard that! We were honored to hear you give such a nice eulogy for us; it was quite inspirational. And as for your raid on Outpost 9..."

"It was the shiniest thing ever!" Kobra exclaimed, to a disapproving glare from Jet. "You guys were so kick-ass, especially Fun Ghoul, with all your hand-to-hand combat skills!"

Fun grinned. "There's a reason I'm a registered deadly weapon in six different states." He replied, to a few uneasy looks from his friends but an approving smirk from Kobra.

"We didn't die because, like Kobra said, Killjoys never die," Jet picked up where he had left off. "Remember that time when Korse shot all of us, once in the desert, and then in BLI headquarters when we came to rescue Grace?" The girl clapped as she remembered their heroic sacrifices. "But we came back. It was the same thing this time. We were shot, and the Dracs were going to burn our bodies, but then Adrenaline Angel arrived and, from what I hear, sniped the Dracs and hit Korse over the head with a guitar…knocked him unconscious." He finished, oblivious to the second collective wince that had passed through the group at the name of another of their dead.

"We managed to convince him that it had all been a strange dream when he woke up," Kobra Kid said. "We dressed as Dracs and were appointed to Korse's private guards. From there, we could keep tabs on everyone's whereabouts and protect you when necessary; it was at my advice that Adrenaline Angel came to visit you last week."

"Yeah," Party began. "About that…Kobra, I'm really sorry, but I didn't have a chance to stop her from- "

He fell silent as another Drac cleared its throat and stepped forward. Party was no longer surprised, but very curious, as the Drac revealed itself to be Adrenaline Angel, who was clearly not blown into a million pieces. Only one Drac was left now, looking very nervous as it was so greatly outnumbered.

"I'm fine," She told him needlessly. "Don't worry about it. I had a force field to protect me from the explosion- it was a Drac prototype the guys got for me, but it worked. I buried myself in the sand when I heard someone else coming."

"That was me," Hot Chimp chimed in. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Lindsey, or Hot Chimp among the Killjoys. I'm married to this dunderhead." She added with an affectionate glance at Party.

She shook hands with Adrenaline Angel, who beamed and replied, "I'm Adrenaline Angel, though you probably already know that, and I run a music and art store in Zone 6. Nice to meet'cha!"

"Wow, okay, so if we're all not dead, then…" Party said, still sorting out the confusion in his mind as he spoke. "What shall we do now?"

"You should go down to the Killjoy hideout in Baja and see if you can meet up with Jamia, Bandit, and Frank's kids. They traveled down that way when the first bombs fell since they didn't have a shelter."

Everyone turned at the unfamiliar voice to see Airi Isoda, head of BLI's security, striding toward them with a smile. The last Drac appeared relieved.

"It's okay, guys," Hot Chimp said, as her friends tensed and some reached for their guns. "She's on our side. Have any of you ever met NewsAGoGo?"

Both Party Poison and Dr. Death Defying gasped. "Yes!" Party choked, with a look on his face that suggested that his every dream was coming true all at once.

"She's only the best radio host and warmongering Twitter-user ever!" Dr. Death said, gaping at her.

"Thanks," Airi/News replied with a smirk. "But listen: you should leave as soon as possible, before I have to send a squadron after you. I'll be relaxing the anti-Killjoy mantra we've been receiving for so long, but that'll take time and until then you ought to meet up with your families."

Fun Ghoul opened his mouth to agree, but before he could say anything, the remaining Drac said slowly, "So you've always…been a Killjoy then, Airi?"

She surveyed him with a mixture of pity and contempt before replying, "Always."

The Drac ripped off his mask, and the group was met with the grinning face of someone who just _had _to be dead…but of course was not.

"Cherri Cola?" News whispered, at the same time both Hot Chimp and Dr. Death Defying, recognizing their former bandmate, yelled in surprised delight, "Jimmy!"

Their combined happiness was nothing next to Cherri Cola's expression as he dropped the mask, crossed the sand to NewsAGoGo quickly, enfolded her in his arms, and kissed her.

Everybody said, "Awww," excepting Grace, who covered her eyes and said, "Ewww."

They parted, and Cherri whispered, "I love you, News. I always have." At a loss for words, she embraced him.

"Well, since those two lovebirds broke the ice," Adrenaline Angel began. She never bothered to finish her sentence as she went over to Kobra Kid and pulled off his sunglasses; the sight of his gorgeous hazel orbs glinting like purest gold in the sunlight took her breath away, and they kissed.

"Um, aren't you married, Kobra?" Jet asked awkwardly.

"No?" He replied, quirking an eyebrow and smirking mischievously, his arm around Adrenaline Angel.

Fun Ghoul, blushing, turned to Party Poison and got down on one knee to confess his undying love; Hot Chimp interrupted the two Killjoys' tearful outpouring of emotion with, "Hey? Gerard? What about me?"

"Oooh! I'll take her!" Jet Star volunteered.

Lindsey surveyed him appraisingly, asking, "Are you good with kids?"

"Oh, that won't be a problem," Interjected Gerard. "We raised Grace together. I think we could all help out and raise the other kids, too."

"Yay! I'm gonna have sisters!" Grace cheered.

Jet Star went over and gave his new fiancée a hug.

Show Pony, grinning his trademark stupid smile, turned to Dr. Death Defying. "Dr. Death- "

"No," The DJ said shortly, in a this-conversation-is-over voice.

"I was gonna ask if I could borrow some oil for my roller skates," Show Pony elaborated, with an expression like that of a sad puppy in the rain.

"Oh," Dr. Death said; he had been expecting something much different. "Okay."

"Why? Did ya think I was gonna ask if you loved me? 'Cause I already know you do."

Dr. Death rolled his eyes.

The awkward moment was broken when Korse let out a groan and sat up.

"Oh dammit!" Kobra Kid snapped, checking his laser. "I forgot to change the settings back to 'Kill'!"

All the Killjoys pulled out their various weapons and faced Korse as he stood up unsteadily and looked around at his opponents. He then raised his hands over his head and said, "All right. I surrender."

"What?" Party Poison asked, puzzlement quickly turning to suspicion. "No remotely summoned air strikes? No secret squad of Scarecrow in an armored car? You don't have any bombs strapped in your clothing?"

Korse shook his head, looking downcast. "I wish, but this duel was my last resort. I give up."

Fun Ghoul quickly tied him up with a rope he'd found three weeks ago in his vest pocket just to make sure, and the Killjoys started talking about what his fate should be.

"We have to kill him," Kobra said. "I thought I did, and it would've been best. He tried to kill us all, and if we let him go, he'll just do the same again."

"Not necessarily," Jet Star argued. "We could have negotiations with him and BLI and come up with a mutually beneficial agreement so no one else has to die."

"I'd mediate," NewsAGoGo added hopefully.

"You would not," Korse spat, struggling in his bonds. "You've been a traitor the whole time; you'd hardly be fair and impartial."

"If only there was a way to make you see," Adrenaline Angel said sadly, "that you don't need to solve problems by killing people." (Kobra eyed her skeptically.) "All you need is love."

"And art and music were invented to promote love, not hate and violence," Party picked up. "We're not trying to hurt anyone, just to express ourselves."

"Hmm, maybe you have a point," Korse sighed. "I don't even know why I thought you'd be bad for the world in the first place. I remember that I was really unhappy with life…though that might've been just because it was the end of the weekend."

"Say wha?" Show Pony articulated blankly.

Korse shrugged. "I don't like Mondays."

The group's various loud reactions were cut off by a pair of voices from behind them, one with a British accent and the other Irish. "You stole our lines!"

The Killjoys turned to see John Lennon and Bob Geldof descending from the sky with halos. "That's copyright infringement! We could sue you." John yelled.

"Actually, that might not work, since all the lawyers are in Hell," said Jesus, emerging from a burst of heavenly sunshine.

Then Chuck Norris came down, crane-kicked an innocent passerby in the face, and left.

"Well, I guess it's up to us to save the world," Bob grumbled. "Hey, maybe I'll finally get a Nobel Peace Prize."

"I think the Nobel Committee got blown up," Korse said, rubbing his wrists as Fun Ghoul untied him. "You can have one of my Peace Prizes, though. I've got twenty-nine."

"Cool," Said Bob.

And so they all saved the world through the power of religion, love, and rock 'n' roll.

Korse became a comic book artist again, after he fixed the poison in the air with the help of everybody at BLI. Dr. Death Defying got his leg back, thanks to stem cell research. Sweet Revenge changed his name back to Cameron and got a job as the drummer in the Killjoys' band. The Killjoys went off to Baja to meet their families, and to explain to Jamia why they now had five kids to raise together.

And most of them got married and all of them lived happily ever after.

_**THE END!**_


	28. Epilogue Part 1

"Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new end." ~Author Unknown

They were reborn in a flash of fire and agony, falling through their lives onto the ever-present, scorching sand.

Jet Star took a deep, stabilizing breath and attempted to turn the world the right way up, but once he'd gotten the ground beneath his feet properly, he looked around at the vast blue sky with a bank of clouds gathering like ghosts in the east and the heat-rippled sand, only to find that he didn't recognize a grain of it. The highway was nowhere in sight, nor could he see the hills they'd always used as compass markers for the way south.

Beside him, Kobra Kid stood up and surveyed the surroundings; when he likewise realized that this was territory he'd never trekked, he turned to Jet with a resigned sigh and said, "So I take it we're dead?"

"Yeah," Jet replied shortly.

Seeing nothing better to do, they decided to walk in the direction of the cloud bank in hopes of escaping the worst of the midday heat. After about half an hour of this, they noticed that, while logically they'd be tired and thirsty and have sweat sticking to their backs, they felt just fine, as though they hadn't been walking at all. Kobra chuckled darkly at this observation and chalked it up to "one of the many perks of being shot in the face."

Jet Star simply smiled crookedly at his friend's razor-sharp joke, and when the inevitable repressed thoughts leached into his mind like bile, he swallowed them once more and said that they should test this discovery by running the rest of the way.

"Why?" Kobra stalled, with every impression of his usual lack of concern, though Jet could feel Kobra's eyes scratching vainly at the walls of reflective glass Jet wore under the pretense of keeping out the sun.

He recalled that he was hanging on the end of a question. "So we can get there faster, of course." He kept his face just as unmarked and opaque as his sunglasses, and after a few seconds, Kobra realized he would get no explanation for the vague unease drifting downwind from Jet Star, and fell into step next to him as they dashed across the dazzling sand.

True to form, when they neared the cloud bank enough to see the shadow it cast on the sand, they were as well-rested as though they'd just woken up, but both slowed to a stop feet from the shade. The contrast between the piercing light of the dunes and the darkness was so sharp it was like looking off the edge of a cliff, but that disturbing mental image wasn't what kept them from taking another step.

Soon after the shadow began, it darkened more than was natural for cloud-cast shapes to do, and a little ways in from that was the fog. It hovered relentlessly, oppressively, and Jet hoped he and Kobra were thinking the same thing: it would've been better to come face-to-face with some great monstrous beast than this too-innocent mist, its depths shrouding unknown but surely terrible things…

"Well, let's go." Kobra Kid, it seemed, was on a different wavelength, not receiving the same needle-sharp pricklings of fear.

(He was actually worried for Jet, but that didn't stop him from being a little irritated when his friend started singing a stupid oldies tune to comfort himself in his first steps into the darkness- irritated because he couldn't remember the words.)

Wrapped up in a warm Tom Petty song, Jet walked cautiously into the fog. There was nothing visible, dangerous or not, and he reached for Kobra's hand so they wouldn't get separated. As he wandered onward, the phrase "let not the blind lead the blind," sprang into his head, and he almost laughed, but choked it back as a huge wall of blackness loomed out of the fog in front of them. The song ended right then, the cold and fright he had been fending off with it seeping through his jacket, so it wasn't until Kobra approached the ominous silhouette that he dared step forward and stretch out a shaking hand to touch the apparition-

It turned out to be…a wall.

Further investigation revealed that it was part of a building, and not until they had located the doorway- there probably had been a door there once, but it seemed to have been blown out from the inside, if the burn marks on the frame were any indication- and looked into the dimly fluorescent-lit room that somehow was empty of fog did it dawn on them: they had seen this building before. Or, more precisely, the last time they'd seen it had been more than a month and another life ago, on Jet's birthday.

"What's the old storage shed doing here?"

When he took into account that not only was Kobra equally as clueless about the shed's existence, but also that neither of them had any idea where "here" was, Jet figured he had no cause for surprise when Kobra answered his rhetorical question with a puzzled shake of his head.

They stepped into the room, gazing around at the bits of glass scattered on the floor, the shattered windows with the fog still lurking outside, the barren concrete walls.

Suddenly the feelings Jet Star had been struggling to restrain broke free and set upon him. He was hit with fresh terror and sadness at the idea that they were dead, and what were they going to do, what _was _there to do, except wander forever in the same wasteland they had long since tired of living in? Worse still, he could almost hear the dying breaths of those Dracs they had killed today (or whatever day it had been; it seemed like eons ago, but the pain was new). Had he condemned them to the same fate, this endless, joyless purgatory? How could he have done something so terrible?

And floating up in his mind, as clear and searing as though it was branded into his brain, came the memory that used to wake him up at night and fill him with terror. He saw blinding, deathly light shoot through the bus; heard the sizzling and crackling of the electrical components as they fried; gagged as his nostrils were assaulted with the stench of the burning bodies of innocent people…

Jet Star's mind finished vomiting up images, and he collapsed to his knees among the dust and broken glass before literally vomiting, after which he fell over, shaking. Kobra Kid, naturally, ran to his side to see what was wrong. Jet could not find words to describe the anguish, and merely stared up into Kobra's shades, even as Kobra again tried to catch a glimpse of Jet's eyes to determine the depth of his pain, only to be met with his own miniscule reflection, glaring futilely back at his own pitch-black sunglas-

Okay, this was getting stupid.

Jet mustered the muscle strength to pull off his shades and reveal his tear-streaked face, and allowed Kobra to help him sit up. His eyes fell on the broken bits of glass around him, lingered on the razor edges; he picked one up, thinking that the pain he'd put so many people through could hardly be matched with such methods, but repentance had to start somewhere.

Kobra grabbed the shard from his hand and threw it across the room. "Don't," he chided, suspecting Jet's plans.

Jet shook his head, trying to clear out the sorrow; he managed to rid himself of his growing mental list of things to do with tiny pieces of glass, but the dull ache of his depression remained. To his disgust but not surprise, he could see dried blood soaked into his jacket. Whether it had always been there was unimportant; it was not his own, and he could not decide if he wished it was or not.

As a distraction, he looked back at Kobra, and noticed that his friend was still wearing his sunglasses, but they were lighter than he thought they could be, clear enough that the outline of Kobra's eyes showed through. He watched as Kobra blinked and took a deep breath as though steeling his nerves, before rolling his eyes at what Jet would later realize was the corny thing he was about to do.

Kobra, who had to be the least empathetic person Jet knew, said brusquely, "C'mere," and welcomed him into a hug.

Exhausted to the point where moving a finger would've taken incredible willpower, he leaned over and felt Kobra holding him up. Out of the cold, static-shade of grey clouding his mind, a small point of light seemed to form where his neck rested on Kobra's. It spread warmth through him, washing all the sleepiness and sorrow away like sunshine on sheets. Strength returned to him, came back as if it had never left, and he drew back from Kobra (whose sunglasses had darkened to match the gloom outside) feeling happier than he had in weeks.

Jet Star wasn't sure what had caused this abrupt change in his mood, but he was grateful for it; when the two of them stood up and left the dank storage shed, it took mere moments of walking before they saw light through the mist, which hadn't been so bad after all, and not even the bloodstains on his jacket could dampen the contentment he'd found.

They would not stand for this, the injustice of being slaughtered in some rebel's vengeance jag. It was brutal and humiliating, what he'd done to them, and more than that, it wasn't fair.

But nothing was fair in war, and since there was, as far as Stan was concerned, still one of those on, it made sense to exact retribution for the crimes done to them in any way they could.

He was proud to be the leader of the Outpost 9 Militia, as they called themselves, and he was also very proud to have been chosen as such for having killed one of their most famous enemies before he was taken down in that sneak attack along with the rest.

Stan had killed Jet Star and seen Kobra Kid die, and he wasn't going to let them forget that in a hurry. If he couldn't get back at the one who had actually felled him, well, this was the next best thing.

The squadron of ex-Dracs picked up their metaphorical pitchforks and torches and set out on a hunt for Jet Star and Kobra Kid, and a little vengeance of their own.

He was not entirely sure what had happened, but it seemed to have involved siphoning feelings like stale gasoline. Yet another perk of being shot in the face, then, was this new interconnectedness, clearly just the thing for an introvert-bordering-on-recluse like Kobra.

He did not regret taking his friend's depression- everyone needed a little help sometimes, after all- but he had to admit, it made things a lot harder. For instance, he hadn't told Jet what he'd done, so his friend's well-intentioned questions about whether he was feeling okay were difficult to answer. He was also finding it a bit of a challenge to hide his random moments of crying-inconsolably-behind-a-shed, especially when there weren't any sheds around.

That, and Jet Star had had a hell of a lot of issues that Kobra hadn't realized existed until he'd absorbed them into himself. Great.

Eventually, Kobra suggested they go find somebody to talk to. There had to be other dead people out here someplace. Jet agreed, saying that they could seek out some Dracs and talk things over. Kobra could tell he wanted to apologize for anything and everything bad that had ever happened in those Dracs' lives, whether they could possibly be his fault or not. Part of him had a detached respect for the slightly crazy nobility of that idea, and part of him was simply bored and felt that walking around and finding people to say sorry for how much dying sucked was at least a little bit more interesting than sitting around and brooding about how much dying sucked, in that it was a change of scenery.

Oh, and part of him had an uncontrollable hunger for revenge.

It took a ton of work and even more walking, but they finally found the first Drac who didn't flee in terror at the sight of them- like Kobra was really a threat with Jet Star to keep him under control.

They met her in an office building, and after a bit of empty small talk during which Kobra wondered if he wouldn't rather sit outside and stare vacantly at sand dunes, she asked why they were here. Jet explained about his wanting to talk, and seeing how she was dealing with being dead, and if there was anything he could do to help…

"Maybe we could each have a talk- alone?" Kobra suggested. It was the first thing he'd said since the beginning of the conversation.

Jet looked at him a little strangely, but shrugged, said "Sure," and walked out to go wait in the lobby, closing the door behind him.

The Drac raised an eyebrow at him too, so he figured he'd better get to the point. "I'm not here for what my friend's here for. I don't want to hear how you're doing or whatever."

"I guessed as much," she replied. "You don't strike me as the touchy-feely type."

"I'm not. I want answers."

She sighed, as though he was making some routine request she'd heard far too many times to take seriously. "Haven't got any."

He stared her down in growing irritation, and clarified coldly, "You work for BLI. You must've had some idea what was going on when they took over. Why were a bunch of rock bands arrested randomly and tortured?"

The Drac dropped her casual attitude in favor of defensiveness and confusion.

"Okay, first off, I don't work for BLI. I _worked_ for them, meaning that I don't anymore. We're all dead here, remember? There's no Better Living to work for. And anyway, I didn't get that job until long after they came to power, so I have no clue as to why or how that happened, if it did and isn't just a rumor. I've heard some pretty crazy ones, you know, like how- "

"It is not a rumor." Kobra cut her off, his voice dropping as he tried to control his anger. "I was in one of those bands!"

Her eyes widened. "Well, I-I'm sorry for you, but- "

"And you have _no idea_ why this happened? You worked for them for years, and yet you don't know what they have against us?"

She glanced around as though searching for some explanation on her paperless desk. "I think they might've been afraid that you'd, like, rebel against them and they wanted to catch you before you got the chance."

He snorted. "And that worked real well, didn't it? We only rebelled because they attacked us! We were only fighting because they tried to take our freedom."

"Who are you, William fucking Wallace or something?" She was on her feet now, glaring back at him. "At what point did your 'freedom fighting' turn into 'mindlessly slaughtering people because you could'?"

"The same time your 'catching rebels' turned into 'killing artists and everybody who wears a color that isn't grey'!"

"So clearly both our sides were successful in murdering each other," she snarled bitterly. "And good riddance!"

He hit her in the face, the blow coming not from righteous anger as he'd intended, but resentful confusion. He'd realize later that he was trying to figure out who she was saying "good riddance" to, and which side she was on now.

But at the moment, he was more concerned with her response as she staggered back, grabbed the edge of a filing cabinet for support, dabbed the blood from her nose, and lunged forward. She seized a stapler from her desk and had it poised to throw by the time Kobra slipped out and shut the door.

Jet Star was sitting, legs crossed, in the lobby, flipping idly through a magazine. He looked up, and as Kobra was too confused, frustrated, and plain tired by then to figure out how to explain what was waiting for Jet, he simply said, "Your turn."

He sat down in a chair as far from the door as possible- he didn't want to hear what would happen- and as he waited, he thought about two things.

The first was that this visit had been entirely pointless, as he hadn't learned anything he didn't know already, and probably never would, since he had apparently understood the situation long ago and had been foolishly hoping for some great, demystifying explanation other than BLI just being stupid.

The second was that Gerard had been right when he'd said that Kobra was the weakest link. It didn't matter whether he'd meant it or not, because it was still true. There were obviously more ways to be weak than Kobra Kid had realized.

This was not how it was supposed to work.

Dying was supposed to have been a way out, the ultimate way out when life got too hard and it was all too much to deal with. He had thought of it as an escape, always told himself as he hid in the corner of his room after a fight with his father, "It'll be okay. You can always get out if you need to. You haven't used your last resort."

Well, now Sweet Revenge had used it, and what a resort it was!

Being stuck out here in the middle of the stinking desert, again, was hardly worth getting shot in the chest. He hoped that Korse had died too, or the whole thing was a waste of time.

At least everybody knew what side he was on now: the side of the disappointed suicide.

This whole dying thing was not all it was cracked up to be. Sure, one could argue that this was eternal peace, wandering aimlessly through his curtained mind, alone, now and forever. He hadn't thought that maybe eternal peace was a bit too long of a time frame to have to live in. Forever was more than he'd bargained for.

He picked his way across the sand, in no particular direction. He might've been wandering in circles for days; what did that matter? He didn't need to drink, to seek an oasis, or to eat; he slept out of habit, and to have something to do at night other than walking.

And all the while the curtains were there at the edges of his mind, the tattered fragments of years past, of lives past, of sorrow come but not quite gone. Why they were there, or what they meant, he could never quite figure out, but their mysterious, omnipresent fluttering soon became frustratingly, eerily incomprehensible.

There were no other people, or so he thought, which was why he was so shocked one day when he crested a dune and saw a child sitting, as though waiting. The kid was young, about six or seven, skinny, with black hair and rings around his eyes from crying.

_Or is it from all the sleepless nights?_

He had no idea where the impulse came from, that the kid hadn't been sleeping and probably should, but it was there, and he saw no reason to doubt it now.

"Hey," Sweet Revenge said, walking up to the kid, making an effort to be nice.

The kid stared at him forlornly. "H-hi."

"Are you okay?"

"No," the kid whimpered. He had an oddly familiar voice, like he was saying lines from a movie Sweet Revenge had seen ages ago and never cared about enough to remember fully. "I lost my mom."

"Aww," he replied empathetically, no longer even feeling the stab of pain that accompanied his own loss. Revenge offered the kid a hug, which he accepted. "That's awful."

"Yeah," the kid sniffled into his dusty old jacket.

Déjà vu was a creepy feeling, in Sweet Revenge's opinion, and he was not pleased when it snuck up on him like this.

He stood up and the kid took his hand. They walked for a little ways in silence, until he decided to find out more about his new companion. "What's your name, kid?"

The response was a glance from those unsettling eyes, eyes that he was sure he'd seen somewhere before, and that voice, a little calmer now that its owner wasn't quite so stranded in the desert, answered the one thing Sweet Revenge didn't need to hear.

"Cameron."

Whatever Jet Star had been expecting, it wasn't this.

They'd gone in and met with Mara, who was kinder than she had reason to be, and apparently an office worker to the last. He still wasn't sure what they were doing there, but plans began cementing themselves in his mind as Mara talked about how she was bored and didn't really have a job or anything to do, but still came here because maybe something interesting would happen or she'd find someone to hang out with.

She was lonely and bored, and Jet could totally relate.

He went out in the lobby to let Kobra talk to her about God-knows-what, and as he waited, he puzzled over what to do. He glanced through some cooking magazines sitting on the table, marveled at how realistic they were- because they'd long since learned that everything here was a construct of somebody's mind, and that they could create expansive office buildings of their own had they so desired. So why had they seen practically no buildings?

Then again, Mara had said she preferred someplace out-of-the-way because it wasn't as busy or crowded, so he supposed that they had just wandered away from any cities. The fact that they had grown accustomed to desert wastelands in life didn't make them inclined to leave them in death.

Still, maybe they should try to find a city and get more people to talk to, rather than frequenting these empty stretches of land where the occasional skyscraper jutted out like the skeleton of a wild animal, clawing vainly at the heavens.

Jet Star hated being in the place where San Francisco came to die.

Kobra walked out, and there was something suspicious in the too-innocent way he waved Jet through the door that left him unsurprised to be greeted by Mara, looking furious and brandishing a stapler.

"Get out," she commanded through a bruised nose.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he tried explaining, walking over with his hands up in a gesture of peace.

"Maybe you're not, but your buddy, the one who thinks he's a fucking freedom fighter? Yeah, he's fighting for his freedom to damn well punch people in the face."

Jet was confused. "He's not usually that idealistic…" He was trying to distract her enough that she'd put the stapler down. He edged into the chair in front of her desk.

It worked; she replaced it and sat down facing him, shaking her head. "Man, I just wanted to talk to somebody. I mean, you're a Killjoy. You know how it is to be persecuted."

He nodded. "It's bad." Wishing he had some great wisdom to impart on the subject, he added, "But it gets better. You don't have a reputation as an Exterminator, which helps. You could always go to a city and find something to do there."

Mara sighed. "Sure, why not? More stuff happens in cities anyway. And you don't have to sit around and wait for people to come find you and say they wanna talk but really they want to interrogate you and hit you in the face."

"You're still mad."

"No, Sherlock, I'm suffering from tennis elbow."

This was such a random comment that he burst out laughing. She, too, had to crack a smile; it shone briefly through the clouds of her irritation. Then it vanished again.

He took a deep breath. This was probably a bad idea, but Kobra sure as hell wasn't going to apologize. And atonement had to start somewhere, after all. "Hit me."

She raised her eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." Maybe it'd make her feel better.

It certainly seemed to; as he rubbed his aching jaw, which hurt from the aftereffects of Kobra's anger as well as Mara's, he could see that she was grinning in bemusement.

He said "Bye," she said "Thanks," he met Kobra in the lobby, and they left.

It was a start.


	29. Epilogue Part 2

She was getting sort of impatient.

She'd expected them to show up first thing, to go back to a landmark they knew- or one of them knew it, at least. She'd expected greetings.

But nothing. Nada. She'd seen exactly no one since arriving, people she knew or not.

Hadn't they been friends?

Maybe he was just busy. Yes, that was it. He'd had lots of enemies in life, and they were probably waiting for him here the way she was.

Well, Adrenaline Angel was sick of waiting.

She put a note on the door of the music shop, saying she'd gone out to lunch for a while, and went to find Kobra Kid.

Soon enough, she stumbled across some weird mist, and this derelict warehouse. There was a pair of sunglasses on the floor there, but as it wasn't his favorite pair it had no meaning for her, and she wrinkled her nose and turned to go.

Sitting against the wall was his old bass guitar, the one he'd burned the day they met. She went over and picked it up. It looked like it had never been used, much less set on fire, and she slung it over her back to take with her to the shop. She wasn't going to sell it, though; she figured he'd be glad to have it back.

Then she left, because the mist gave her the heebie-jeebies.

She decided that waiting wasn't so bad. He'd get there soon enough.

Korse had not experienced a setback of this magnitude since he'd quit his job as a comic book artist years ago. He spent his days wandering through the city, figuring out what his next step should be.

He fully intended to set up as much of Better Living Industries by himself as he could, and that meant he would have to get premises and start figuring out how to hire people for manufacturing, marketing, shipping…

Oh, who was he kidding?

From the moment he'd set foot in the city of the dead, this reclamation of California, he'd known, deep down, that BLI would never work here. The people were not prone to dependency the way living people were. They had their own ideas, their own worlds to create and afterlives to live. There was no way they'd bother with anything he could give them, and certainly no way they'd ever conform to anything the way the citizens of Battery City had. It was an impossibility.

It was a painful thing to admit to himself, made more painful still when he realized that he could no longer just take a pill and be rid of that feeling; he would have to cope with every part of life now that he was dead.

He recalled with a cynical smile the threats he'd made before killing the great Kobra Kid, that he'd take down all the other Killjoys before he himself ended up in Hell. Well, he'd been wrong, because not only had he been betrayed by more people than he could have anticipated before he'd accomplished his mission, but he wasn't sure if this was Hell at all. He had no company to serve anymore, but he had no more wars to fight either: with no BLI, there was no Killjoy rebellion.

So Korse set aside his dreams of grandeur (he was never quite sure he had really meant to rule BLI anyway, and had not just thought of it out of habit) and went off to find something else to do.

Well, this was just great. He'd already been having a crappy day, one that was not helped by his depression or anger management issues, and now he had to go and make Jet Star mad at him.

Not that Jet was ever technically "mad," not so you'd notice, but when you'd been his friend for as long as Kobra had, you could tell that he was irritated or disapproving (or, in this case, both) by the way his eyes narrowed and his voice grew sharper and lost its usual Zen calmness.

"Why'd you have to go around punching people we were trying to make friends with?"

Kobra didn't have an answer; he felt as bad about it as Jet did. Or maybe not quite as bad, because he didn't have a bruise turning blue-purple on the side of his face. He quickly realized that that was his fault; he should've known that of course Jet would figure out how to absorb pain and go around taking it from others. Maybe he had known and that was what had been bothering him, along with all his other problems.

Jet sighed. "Look, I know that being dead is hard, and I'm not enjoying it any more than you are, but you have to find a better way to deal with your problems than taking them out on others."

Kobra really did not appreciate being lectured, especially not when he knew for a fact that Jet was enjoying death at least slightly more than he was, because Jet was no longer horribly depressed; he'd made sure of that. "All right, all right, fine. I won't take revenge on random people, just the ones that deserve it."

Bad choice of words. "And how do you know when they deserve it if you don't give them a chance to talk? What's that mean anyway, that they deserve it? Is it just the ones you don't like, or the ones that don't give you the answers you're looking for, or what?"

Kobra had given up on answers since they'd left the first Drac's office building. He hadn't even known, exactly, how to figure out who to take vengeance on; he'd assumed that they would be the ones that still professed a hatred for the Killjoys, the ones that were loudly unapologetic about their work for BLI. But the meeting with the Drac today had thrown him off, made him unsure of his methods.

Did he even have methods?

Kobra said, "I don't know," and that was a pathetic answer too.

Jet Star was suddenly sympathetic. "Look, I'm sure we can find a way for you to deal with your issues. I just wanna make sure that your being okay doesn't mean that other people have to suffer for it."

The conversation would've been over had Kobra not been in a really bad mood, and recognized the hypocrisy of Jet's words. The worst part was that he didn't know he was being a hypocrite, because Kobra had never explained the sacrifice he'd made. He hadn't intended to do so ever if he could avoid it, but now he was pissed. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to deal with _your_ issues anymore. I'm dealing with yours for you, and mine at the same time. So forgive me if I seem a bit on edge!"

Jet raised his eyebrows as he realized what Kobra meant, as he pieced together why he was no longer depressed and why Kobra had been hiding from him so often and what it was that his friend had wanted to keep secret.

"You stole my…" he trailed off, eyes wide, at a loss for words to describe how messed up they both were.

Kobra nodded.

Jet reached for him. "Give it back! It's my problem; let me handle it."

Kobra stepped away. "No," he said simply.

Jet knew, as much as he refused to admit, that he couldn't handle this on his own. He sighed again, dropped his arm. "Fine, but the second you have any nightmares, I want you to tell me. I can help with those. And definitely tell me if you feel like hurting yourself, okay. I've dealt with that too."

Right. He would only burden Jet with his own nightmares if he was on the brink of…what? Suicide? That'd be the biggest waste of time ever, and no longer from just a moral standpoint, Kobra realized, and laughed darkly in his head. Self-harm? Maybe, but being no stranger to such things himself, he could handle it

"So have I, remember?" Kobra's reply held not only a reminder of his own trials, but of what had brought them together in the first place, the reason they had formed the band. They would all be in this together, they'd said.

And in that, he had a different kind of answer. Why would he not rely on his friend, who had saved his life once, twice, a hundred times? He would try his best not to be dependent on Jet- God knows the man had enough to be getting on with already- but he didn't have to go it totally alone.

Jet just smiled, and he took it as a confirmation.

Kobra Kid, a self-proclaimed self-sufficient loner, didn't like to admit it, but that made him feel better.

"Hey Angel. Long time, no see."

Adrenaline Angel wondered if she'd ever been as happy to see someone as she was to see Kobra Kid.

He'd brought his friend with him, that guy with the hair who played guitar, the one they called the "mastermind." That was about all she knew about him- that and that he never bought his own guitar strings; Kobra always went and got them for him, which was how they'd often got to talking about Jet Star in the first place- because Kobra wasn't the talkative type, but Jet Star struck up a conversation about how she was doing with being dead. She explained that she was still running her music store and people still came and bought things (or not bought, exactly, as they didn't have money, but they traded CDs for salad recipes and it was all good).

She asked how he was doing.

"Oh, actually, that's why we're here. We wanted to find out about getting some music stuff." On the far side of the room, Kobra twitched- not enough to be obvious, but Angel could tell when he was nervous or irritated, or in this case, both.

"'Kay, whatcha lookin' for?" Angel asked.

"A bass guitar and, um, I don't know if you have any Gibsons?"

Did she have Gibsons? If he was a friend of Kobra's and he needed it, she could've gotten him Jimi Hendrix's guitar.

She showed them the wall where she kept all her guitars, and if she'd thought Kobra was twitchy before, it was nothing compared to his reaction to his old bass.

He turned to Jet. "I'm telling you, I still don't think this is a good idea."

"Kobra, it's not like the cops will show up and arrest us again. We're dead, remember? I doubt there are cops. I doubt there's even crime!" Jet's face took on a dreamy, faraway look. "Nobody kills anyone here…nobody kills themselves…"

"Yeah, fuck dying!" Angel added with a laugh. "We already did that once."

Jet laughed, and Kobra shook his head in the way that he did when he found something amusing but couldn't be bothered to crack a smile.

"Wait, then what's the point of us getting a band together?" Kobra clearly did not want to be involved in this, and Angel could see why: their last gig sounded like hell, even in the understated way Kobra had told the story. Cops or no cops, he had reason to be wary of concerts.

"Well, people are still lonely." Jet Star began. "They have nothing to do. We need stuff to do too, so why not something we love? It doesn't cost anything, we can try out new songs, and everybody will enjoy it." He paused with a grin. "Do you need any more reasons, 'cause I could make you a list…"

"No, I'm good, thanks," Kobra replied, with a small smirk this time. "But what'll we do without Gerard? And I know you're good, Jet, but you can't play yours and Frankie's parts at the same time."

Angel didn't know if she was the only one who detected the hint of vulnerability in Kobra's question. That was what made her a little uncertain about presenting them with a solution of sorts. "I could play rhythm guitar."

"Yeah?" Jet sounded mildly interested and open to the idea.

Kobra was neither of those things, and trying to hide it. "That'd be nice, but we're not really into country."

Angel rolled her eyes in affectionate annoyance. "Ignoring the stereotyping in that comment, I was going to show _y'all_ my guitar." She emphasized the word _y'all_ with a smirk of her own before walking behind the counter and emerging with Featherweight.

She was the only person she knew who had given their guitar a name, but she was proud of Featherweight and how the totally shiny Flying V had taught her everything she knew, and she wasn't going to change it now.

Kobra let out a whistle. "All right, let's see what you got."

She was also glad that she'd stayed in practice, so that when she plugged her guitar into one of her many amps, she knew she didn't suck. All she had to do was prove it.

She launched into a tricky little Van Halen lick that had taken her hours of work, and she totally nailed it. When she hit the final bend, Kobra had his eyebrows raised, which was the highest compliment he could give.

Jet Star chuckled. "Hey now, I don't want you replacing me or anything."

Angel giggled. "'Course not. But we do all need to practice at some point."

"How about now? We have time."

"Alrighty, cool."

"One more thing," Kobra tried again. "What about a lead singer?"

"Oh," Angel frowned. Shredding Van Halen was fine and dandy, but singing while playing guitar was way beyond her.

Jet Star had thought about this; there was no other explanation for how quickly he came up with an answer. "We should get the fans to sing. Like, every night, or every song, we invite one of them up to sing for us. Then they all get a chance in the spotlight."

That explained why he was the mastermind.

Maybe it was that he'd lost his defenses, or that he was jealous of how well she was getting on with Jet (did he even get jealous, or was that just wishful thinking?), but Kobra seemed sullen as he picked up the bass he'd tried to get rid of and sat down to play.

He brightened up pretty fast, though; music had that effect on him. Angel was happy too, first because he was happy, and second because they were getting this plan off the ground.

Jet started teaching her some MCR riffs (Kobra hadn't been lying when he said that Jet was good, only under-exaggerating), which Kobra joined on bass, and they all got along great.

It was about time he'd got here.


	30. Epilogue Part 3

They walked side by side, Sweet Revenge and Cameron, padding across the miles. They wandered aimlessly, but somehow always felt like they were going in the right direction. They saw no one, and did not care to look, as content as their troubled minds would allow to simply be alone together.

His younger self held his hand, not seeming to mind the blood that dripped onto his new white shirt. The old wounds carving lines of nostalgic sadness into his wrists, scars that he'd thought were sealed for good, had reopened after Cam had joined him. His presence filled Sweet Revenge with joy and sorrow, a familiar bittersweet combination of emotions that he'd often tried to hide from everyone in life who he was supposed to be friends with.

He was also sorry that the kid had to be exposed to his own struggles, his miserable musings on the emptiness of death. While they had some kind of alliance, perhaps a friendship, and a place to go, Sweet Revenge couldn't help that he still felt lost and alone. It wasn't so much a physical loneliness now that he had a companion, but a vacancy inside, like something important was missing. It was that notion that seeps in on a long trip, like there was a light bulb left somewhere on or a door unlocked.

And of course, there were always the curtains. He had almost given up on finding out what they meant by the time he met Cam, and now he walked past the shadow-rippled apparitions with such a façade of nonchalance that he almost convinced himself that he couldn't see them, that they weren't there.

Cam had no such pretenses to uphold, and when he noticed the curtains, he began to cry again, holding Revenge's hand tightly in fear.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sweet Revenge asked, hoping beyond reason that Cam could finally end the mystery for him. He turned back, holding the curtains in his vision, and saw that they were now standing in front of a mass of them, a maze of misty cloth billowing like sails on the funeral boats of old, darker than night or death itself even though they were pure white.

Cam shook his head, not wanting or unable through his tears to explain. He sobbed something that sounded like, "Mama."

"I'm going to figure this out," Revenge told him, and let go of his hand to approach the wall of curtains. Cam cried more loudly, rushing forward to catch hold of him, to pull him back. He tugged against his younger self. "Come on, it can't be that bad."

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. The fear reflected in his own eyes told him all he needed to know: whatever he would find in that labyrinth was more than bad; it was the worst thing he would ever see. He was aware of the foreboding gnawing at his resolve, his subconscious unease surfacing and holding him to the spot with more strength than Cam. He did not want to go in there; he had never been surer of anything in his life or death.

But he knew, with the same certainty, that he had to go.

Cameron frowned, protesting more violently as Sweet Revenge drew himself up and resumed his walk toward the curtains. Revenge looked down at him kindly, with an expression that said, _I've made up my mind and I'm going. You don't have to if you don't want._ Cam composed himself remarkably well for such a young child, and looked right back with a fiercely loyal determination. He was along for the ride, it seemed.

Revenge took a deep, relaxing breath (that did nothing whatsoever to relax him), and said, "Let's go."

The curtains swirled around them, swishing and snapping in their wake, parting easily before them to invite them in, while closing off their escape, in the perfect trap. Sweet Revenge and Cameron were soon lost in the maze, disoriented by all the identical drapes that continuously shifted and changed in the wind, so that a wall never stayed in the same place or held the same form for more than a second. There was no path, even, just the ones they made themselves, pushing between the breaks in the nearest curtains.

But in the midst of this indecipherability, Sweet Revenge had a sense of familiarity; he knew what was coming, had known all along. It was so close he could almost touch it…

A shade appeared up ahead, a single dark spot in the sunlit gloom surrounding them. As they got closer, they could see it was a human shape, a little taller than Revenge, that almost seemed to be floating above the ground; it cast a quavering shadow over the curtains and he caught glimpses of color as they neared the edge of the drapes just in front of it. A flash of blue jeans and a yellow shirt brought recollections of Revenge's childhood, Cameron's present. He knew whose clothes they were, but couldn't quite recall until-

- he parted the last curtain and saw, just as he had when he was six years old, his mother, hanging by her neck from the living room curtain rod, dead.

It was a good thing that Cameron was too young to think of saying "I told you so."

The few weeks of excitement and shredding in the musty music store passed quickly, and during that time Jet Star and Kobra Kid kept meeting people and gathering strands of lives, or at least Jet did.

There was Emily, who had died at fifteen in a car crash that the Killjoys had caused in an attack, and she interrupted Jet's consoling apology with an overjoyed exclamation that she'd never have gotten the chance to work at Water World in her life, not after everyone had forgotten what that was, but she held onto a few snatches of commercials and pieced together what she could, and she was happy with the water park she shared with everyone.

There was Dan, a twenty-something one-time Drac who had never known love because he'd never realized he was gay, and BLI would've forbidden such a deviation if it had ever come to light anyway; now he and his boyfriend Shane were happier here than they'd ever been in the oppressive life they were born into.

Jet Star thanked each of them for their time and invited them to the concert, and in between such discussions he thought about what they'd told him. Dying was obviously not as bad as everyone said; in some cases it seemed even better than life.

He entertained the distressing notion that if that was the case, all the kids whose lives they'd saved back when they were a band were missing out on this. But he dismissed those feelings when he figured out that the reason these dead people were so happy was not that death was always awesome (hadn't he recently been tormented himself, hunted by the merciless wolves that he'd thought were gone?), but that here they had control of their lives and they could choose their fates. The disturbed kids he'd met didn't have that option, for whatever reason, or they didn't think they did.

And something Frankie had said once came back to him: "We don't save their lives; they save themselves." Those kids did have a choice in their fates, to an extent, the choice to live or die, to give up or keep going.

In that respect, the dead he met weren't so dead, really.

He kept watch on Kobra too, trying to see how he was handling the pressure he'd placed himself under, whether Jet's wolves were gaining on him. Kobra held them at bay well enough, though: The only times Jet ever caught a sign of the hatred he was hiding behind his sunglasses or the rage he restrained for Jet's sake (he could say it was to spare the ex-Dracs all he liked, but Jet knew the truth, and was grateful) were when Jet would glance out the window of a memory-crafted house and see the smoke wafting up from an explosion in the distance. Kobra's contribution to Jet's plan of atonement was to stay far away, construct huge buildings- Jet had glimpsed mansions, skyscrapers, palaces- and then blow them up and burn them to the ground. It was for Kobra what hearing the stories of the dead were to Jet, and he didn't question it for a second.

Adrenaline Angel played her fingertips nearly bloody in their practices, but she never complained, never gave up or let frustration set in. If she had trouble with a part, after the sour notes and accidental open strings had rung themselves to unsatisfying silence, she'd close her eyes and breathe, then look to Kobra. He'd give her a brief nod of encouragement and, if the opportunity was there, a tip or two on technique, and then she'd go right back at it with twice as much enthusiasm and half as many mistakes.

Of course, it helped that she was already freakin' amazing at guitar.

The concert was set for three weeks from the day they'd met Angel, and by that time, Jet Star was sure that all of them were as prepared as it was possible to be, because they'd practiced every day and often into the night. Jet had remembered all the parts for the setlist they'd created, Angel had dutifully learned them (often it took her less time to pick up a new part that it had taken him to recall how it went), and Kobra had accompanied them on bass. He was sure that everything was ready, except for one last issue.

That was Kobra, and his ever-present reluctance to perform. Jet Star had not given up on trying to convince him that'd it'd be okay in the end, though inside he knew that no amount of wasted words would make Kobra more inclined to agree; if he was going to play, he would, and if not, then Jet and Angel would go on together, bass-less.

Kobra had taken most of Jet's guilt-tripping tendencies, but he couldn't help feeling little twinges when he saw half-dried tear tracks on Kobra's cheeks, or watched the smoke from one of his soul-searing fires fanning out over the sand. One day, when he came back to the music store after talking with a gruff, good-natured Helium War vet who called himself Joey, he saw Kobra Kid leaning against the counter and crying while trying valiantly to pretend like he wasn't. Angel was rubbing his back comfortingly, clearly not fooled.

Jet knew that this was partly Kobra's own fault for taking his depression, but it was Jet's fault for letting him keep it, too. He was grateful that Kobra, who had been through depression once or twice already and was aware of how awful it could get, felt their friendship to the point where he was willing to sacrifice his well-being for Jet, but the latter realized that it was now his turn to show the same loyalty.

The day of the concert arrived in a blaze of sweltering heat and ridiculous amounts of excitement on Angel's part, when she woke them up with a series of high-pitched squeals to the effect of how awesome this was going to be, and how much everybody would love them, and how could they sleep in when they had to _rock out_?!

Jet heaved himself off the floor, yawning openly and prompting laughter from Angel about his laziness, and gave Kobra a hand up off the deflating air mattress. Angel hurried back and forth around them, pulling up the blinds, making Jet squint in the light streaming into the store (he could only assume that Kobra, in his sunglasses as always, was unscathed.)

"Well, let's get started," Jet said, picking up his guitar and kicking off a few quick final touch-ups on the more complicated solos. Kobra's face darkened to match his shades, but he grabbed his bass and played along.

Angel's enthusiasm- and, luckily, her alertness- spread to both of them as the hours passed. They finally left for the concert, arriving at the community bandshell in plenty of time to run soundcheck and for Jet to marvel that the land of the dead had its own, elegantly structured bandshell. He mentioned this to his friends, and Angel did not interrupt the flow of her chatter but spread it to encompass the comment, "Well, I should hope they have a stage for people like us! Otherwise we'd have to be street musicians, though that'd be kinda fun too. But this has better acoustics," before resuming her ramble about how she hoped that the spotlights didn't make it too hard to see. Jet assured her they did not.

Kobra said nothing, just went back to tuning his bass, looking like he resented everything in the world, especially the bandshell and the spotlights. Jet strolled over and sat next to him, asked to borrow an E, and turned to him with the same it's-gonna-be-okay smile he'd been using too often for his tastes. "Kobra, I just wanted to tell you," he began, resting a hand on his friend's back; he could sense him rolling his eyes, suppressing the urge to tell Jet to fuck off. "I wanted to tell you that you're not gonna have to deal with my problems anymore, or at least you won't have to carry them around."

He casually shifted his hand onto the skin at the back of Kobra's neck and finished, "Because I'm taking them back."

Kobra realized what he meant just as he began draining the slow, toxic liquid of depression out of Kobra like poison from a wound. He could feel it roll over him like fog, as he breathed in sadness, exhaled regret, existed in painful lethargy. Kobra jerked away a little too late, and Jet's darkness was complete, taken from his friend's sunglasses straight into his mind. His consolation was the subtle brightening of Kobra's face and the visibility regained around his eyes.

Jet retreated to a separate corner to finish tuning, fighting off his demons the whole way. He flattened his A string while trying to suppress the ever-present remorse and sorrow (he'd sold them off for a time, but they'd made their way back); his D string plunked dully into pitch with the same lackluster thudding as his heart; he sharpened his G string, the note grating off him like a knife on a whetstone; his B string quavered up too high at first and brought with it the icy tones of sleepless nights; the bottom E string tuned with the sound of screams, a reminder that he really didn't need right then.

Adrenaline Angel came in with a teenage girl in tow, who she introduced as Mackenzie, their lead singer for the night. The girl looked about as nervous as Kobra, who was sitting rigidly in his chair, staring blankly at the door that led to the stage. Jet salvaged the remainder of his sympathy to go over and greet her with a handshake, trying to make her feel comfortable in the presence of her "favorite, favorite rock stars and people in general," as she called them breathlessly.

"We're on in five," Angel said, picking up her guitar and heading to the stage door.

"Where are you going?" Kobra asked in a strangled voice, a hint of desperation creeping into his face. "I thought we had five minutes."

"I meant five seconds! C'mon! Let's do this thing!" Angel grinned, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes.

Her inexhaustible excitement radiated through them, poking a small pinpoint of light into the dark haze in Jet's brain. He stood up, and followed her and Mackenzie, with a glance back to see if Kobra was coming too.

His friend sat as still as ever, tense and terrified, clutching his bass like a shield in front of him. "Go on without me," he whispered, and Jet knew it would do no good to argue. _At least I tried, _he thought, as they left Kobra alone. _I did all I could, and I took responsibility for my problems, which helps me even if it doesn't cure his stage fright._

But try as he might to convince himself that a resurgence of the inexorable waves of sadness he was drowning in was a positive thing, it did nothing to cheer him up in the slightest.

He found it difficult to brood about his guilt as he would've liked, though, once he emerged onstage to the roars of the massive crowd. He hadn't expected this many people, but the ones he'd invited had clearly invited their friends, and they had invited people they knew, and so on, and so the lawn's cheering multitudes nearly outnumbered the stars in the evening sky above. They were all there to hear their band play, and as damn tired as he felt, Jet would always feel like playing guitar- now especially because it would distract him and keep him from staring too hard into his memories.

The three of them started in on "Famous Last Words," and Jet smiled sardonically at the fact that he'd written this to help Mikey overcome his depression, and now Kobra was missing it because he'd helped Jet with _his_ trauma. Still, he was determined to make the most of what they had, and tried to look like he was rocking out.

Angel really was enjoying herself, and she seemed to be channeling Frankie's sprit as she jumped around, shredding guitar parts like she'd been doing it for years. Mackenzie, too, was getting comfortable; she still had a bit of a deer-caught-in-headlights (spotlights, really) look around her eyes, but sung with her own vocal style, imbuing the song with new meaning, and it made Jet proud to sing backup for her.

They got through the first chorus, not without another pang of irony at Kobra's absence, but when they hit the second, the crowd's cheers swelled again. Jet wondered why, and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the answer arrived in the form of the deep rumble of the bassline. Jet turned and saw Kobra, his face set in steely determination, standing behind the others like he halfway wanted to hide, but he was there and he was playing better than he'd ever done. He glanced up for a second, during which Jet flashed him an honest smile, one that he returned for the first time in weeks.

His friend's willpower encouraged Jet, cleansing him of what little sadness and pain still remained, and he sailed into the solo on a wave of unrelenting happiness. He and Kobra played back-to-back, standing together and rocking out.

The only thing now that made Jet sad about that night was that it had taken them so long to come back to this way of life. It had been too long since he'd headbanged his brains out for the audience; since he'd heard hundreds of voices singing Gerard's super-shiny lyrics in harmony, led by Mackenzie's amazing vocal skill- she definitely deserved this chance to be a rock star- and raised his voice along with them; since his lead guitar parts had had rhythm entwined with them, and a bass to back them all up. But they were here, right now, enjoying it, and that was all that mattered.

He didn't feel bad even when it ended, didn't grieve for the hours or songs they'd killed, but let his joy carry him backstage. He laughed as much as Angel in his semi-delirious relief and exhaustion (he was sweat-spent, not sorrow-spent, and that made him glad, too).

They gathered their music stuff and stepped outside, to be greeted by not the fans they'd expected, but a group of about fifty angry-looking men and women, some still dressed like the Dracs they had once been, brandishing various weapons. Jet felt the happiness drain out of him like air from Angel's messed-up mattress, turning quickly to sickening dread.

His one consolation was the thought that the ex-Dracs couldn't kill them _again__-_but that, too, turned sour when he realized that their enemies (and he wondered what they had done to provoke people to such rage) could torture them for as long as they wanted and never have to worry about accidentally taking their lives.

The one in front, the assumed leader, said to Mackenzie and Angel, "You don't have to stay; we're just here for the Killjoys." And in that frighteningly familiar speech Jet had his answer: the voice and the British accent, which could now ring out without suppression from BLI, belonged to the Drac who had taunted Jet just before shooting him in the face.

Mackenzie bolted, but Angel stayed with a defiant glare. "I'm a Killjoy too, and if you have a problem with them, you have a problem with me."

The man shrugged, said, "Fine," and then introduced himself. "I don't think we were properly acquainted last time we met; I'm Stan, the leader of the Outpost 9 Militia."

"What do you want?" Angel snapped, crossing her arms.

"Well, your Killjoy friends in the living world didn't take your deaths very well and decided that brutally murdering us all and destroying our outpost was the best way to deal with that. They were particularly harsh on me, because I killed you, Jet Star," he added, with a nod at his past victim and present prey.

Jet could think of nothing to say to that, but his friend could.

"Serves you right," Kobra interjected, eyeing Stan warily now that he recognized him, but Stan ignored him.

"We're here to pay you back for the wrongs done to us by your so-called heroic rebellion."

Someone in the group behind him shouted, "Yeah! Let's kick their asses!"

Jet Star tried to be the peacemaker, to help Stan see reason. "Look, we didn't hurt you, and I am very sorry that you went through all that because of us, but it's not our fault. We can't control what our friends did, but I can assure you that if we had been alive, we would never have approved of that kind of thing." "Speak for yourself," Kobra said.

A guy standing to Stan's left started to say, "What about the attack on the Party Bus?" but Stan cut him off and turned to Kobra, who was clearly easier to argue with. "Go on, then, you bastard. You want us all dead, don't you? I've heard about your secret little serial-killer raids on us. I'm just glad that I got to be there when Korse did what served _you_ right and shot you. You barely put up a fight, but then, all cowards are like that- "

He had barely gotten the last words out before Kobra charged forward, his bass still slung over his back, to tackle Stan to the ground and beat the motorpulp out of him, the way he'd threatened to do to countless other Dracs on a regular basis when they were alive. Stan, however, had been expecting that move; he sidestepped causally- he almost gave a bored yawn- and let Kobra fall into the midst of the mob. They set on him, and while the fight he put up could hardly be described as cowardly, he was vastly outnumbered and soon hung limp from pain, his face bleeding, in the grip of four members of the Militia.

Angel took off her guitar and held it over her head like a battle-axe as she advanced on them, bashing a few of them upside the head with it, but then they descended in a horde upon her too, stripped her of her makeshift weapon, and held her down.

"Well, Jet Star?" Stan prompted, with the arrogant smile his advantage warranted. "Aren't you going to attack us too and save your friends, or did you leave your hero complex in the brains I blasted out of you?"

Jet could see his friends struggling vainly in the grips of their captors and quickly ruled out fighting as an option, not that he had really considered it to begin with. "No," he replied quietly. "I don't think it has to come to that. You don't need to hurt us for the pain others have caused you. You can always choose to accept that you beat us once already, and be satisfied and leave. And as for the rest of you," he addressed the Militia as a whole, meeting each set of narrowed eyes in turn, "you don't have to get our blood on your hands. I know we've done some things as Killjoys that have hurt you, even if we've never met face-to-face, but we're through with that now. We won't hunt you down and hurt you anymore, and I for one am truly sorry we did that at all. I am sorry," he repeated in conclusion, dwelling on each word with deep sincerity.

To his relief and gratitude, about half the Militia's members looked at each other sheepishly, put down their pipes and rocks, and simply walked away.

Stan watched them go with disdain and redoubled his taunts to appease the remainder of his army. "That was quite a rambling speech; pity it was so long and dull, or I might've actually listened to some of the points that I don't care about. Very holier-than-thou, too. Are you trying to tell us that God Himself appointed you to rule over the morals of the whole West Coast or something?" They all laughed and joined in with jeers of their own.

Jet ignored the digs; any wounded animal would lash out at what it saw as a threat. He swung his guitar around, hoping it was still in tune, hoping more than he dared that he wouldn't have to use his last defense. He would have to thank Kobra, once they were out of danger, for giving him the idea for it.

The man who had asked about the Bus (Jet was not so distracted that the mention didn't itch with the memory of pain, like an old scar) was rubbing his head after being one of Angel's unfortunate victims, and spoke up again. "Are you gonna go for us with a guitar too? 'Cause you can see how well that worked for your friend." As if on cue, Angel suddenly started fighting against the people holding her down, but it was still useless, and she was quickly subdued with a blow to the stomach.

Jet smiled at him, not pityingly, but honestly, to show that he was telling the truth and his words were not empty threats (he found threats bitter and distasteful, anyway, so he preferred to think of this not as a threat but a warning) when he said, "No, I'm not going to hit you. But if you don't put your weapons down and follow the others by the count of three, I'll make you leave."

They all responded with noises of disbelief and sarcastic fear, and Jet counted up slowly, to give them time to change their minds if they wanted. "One." He surveyed them all in turn once more, to make it clear that he didn't want to have to do this, that they still had a chance, a choice.

None of them took it, instead meeting his eyes with their arbitrary hate.

"Two."

Stan added in a final taunt of, "Oooh, scary, scary! Just like his friend, too, making his little threats to get us all to run away from the Killjoy menace! What're you gonna do, sing at us?"

The militia's loathsome laughter rang out for half a second before Jet Star said, "Three," channeled all his fear and anger down to his fingers, and called out rock and roll's traditional battle cry: "One-two-three-four!"

And for once he didn't care how much damage he did.

He ran as fast as he could, faster than he'd ever gone in his life, and somehow his companion kept pace. Their footsteps scattered the ground behind them as they streaked across the sand, leaving specks of displaced dust and blood in their wake.

He could keep going, never stopping, never tiring, caught up in the crazy panic of perpetual retreat. He could run past days and nights, past all the places he'd never known, maybe even past Cameron once he grew bored and his cheap loyalty waned…

But Sweet Revenge knew it was useless, because he couldn't outrun his memories.

He stopped on the edge of a road, the first sign of civilization he had seen here, and picked a direction to walk along it. It was empty, and even though Cam was next to him as always, he felt more alone than ever. He noticed that the kid was crying silently. He probably was too.

"Cam," he said, and the kid looked up. "I'm sorry you had to see that…again." _I'm sorry I had to see it again, too._

Cam shook his head. "It's okay," he responded, without resentment or anger at Revenge for dragging him back to that horrible place in his mind. "Now you get it."

Sweet Revenge stared at him in amazement for a second, before he figured out just how wise of a child he had been, how wise his kid self had made him now.

They arrived at a bus stop, where there was already an old man sitting. Revenge sat next to him and smiled courteously, conscious of the way the old man stared at his bleeding wrists.

"Still messing yourself up, eh, son?" the man asked casually, as if he didn't really care.

Those few words sparked catastrophe in Revenge's mind, floods and fire and windstorms released at last from careful lock and key. He had not gone to his father's funeral out of pure spite, because he had work to do and dependence to shed. And now here he was, the man that Sweet Revenge had spent most of his fragmented childhood and adolescence antagonizing with all he was worth, talking to him as easily as if he'd just got home from work and wanted to hear about his son's day.

Revenge rolled up his sleeves, so his father could see that those were the only cuts on his arms, the only self-inflicted wounds that had ever bled. "Still think I'm a weakling, dad?"

"You died too young." Was that the same sickening pity as always?

"I…had a disagreement with my boss. He didn't take my betrayal too well."

His father's eyes were beaten-down and tired, but narrowed with the same frustration, the same promise of anger that his son had learned to fear, to hate, and then to forget. They stared at him from the past he had tried so hard to escape. "Of course, dying a traitor! I should've known. You live like a rat, you die like a rat."

"I could hurt you," Revenge replied, as years of infuriation welled up in him. "I could beat you the way you beat me."

"I never hit you!" His father's scandalized tone masked his guilt, a technique that had always been one of Revenge's favorite ways of getting critics off his back; he quickly vowed never to use it again. "I never hurt you at all. Don't lie like that."

"It's not a lie, dad," he said quietly. "You might not have left bruises, but you hurt me all the same."

"Oh," said his father, quickly growing harshly sarcastic. "Did I injure your poor, poor, delicate little soul?"

Revenge cut him off before he could start ranting. "Have you heard from Mother?"

His father flinched as he was deftly struck on one of his own soul-bruises. "Yes," he replied after a minute. "I met her down here first thing, like she was waiting for me."

"What'd you say?" Revenge asked nonchalantly.

"We had a fight." _Surprise, surprise._ "She didn't want to admit she was wrong for giving up, for abandoning us. I said that you might try and take after her, and if so, it'd be her fault. She was furious. We must've screamed back and forth for hours"- _just like old times, huh?__-_"and at some point I admitted to myself that I didn't love her anymore. I don't know when that happened, maybe we just grew apart, but that day I told her goodbye for the last time."

Sweet Revenge wanted to laugh at his fool of a father, stuck in the same rut as always and thinking he was free to judge everyone and be right all the time. But then he noticed the slight crack in his voice, the tears that were rarer than diamonds glistening in the corners of his eyes, and remembered the only time he'd seen his father like this was at his mother's funeral. His father was opening up to him, showing vulnerability.

And for the first time, Sweet Revenge felt sorry for him.

They would have no heartfelt talk, no emotional embrace; his father wasn't that kind of man and neither was he, but they stopped arguing after that. They talked about little things, like the nearby city, how mind-building worked (Revenge had a lot to learn, it seemed), and about the bus stop that had brought them together.

"When does the bus get here?" Sweet Revenge asked, glancing down the road in both directions to see if he could spot it. He couldn't.

"It gets here when you want it to, and no sooner," his father told him. "Makes bus schedules a thing of the past." He smiled an awkward, crooked smile that fit the moment well.

"And where does it run to?"

"Wherever you have to go. It's pretty damn cryptic; took me a while to figure out. It's never the same bus, either. Different people have different buses. Speaking of which, I think this is yours." He glanced down the road the way Revenge had come, and sure enough, there was the bus- if it could be called that.

He recognized it as the scorched, rickety remains of the Party Bus, looking like it had been to Hell and back, literally: it was more a skeleton than a bus with its blown-out windows, broken lights, and decimated remnants of a roof. It screeched to a stop, and a guy he thought was named Johan waved at him from the driver's seat.

The doors creaked open with an awful grinding of broken metal, and Johan called out, "Come on, Leonard! The ride's free!"

His father nodded his approval, and Revenge crossed half the distance to the door before he turned and said, "I'm not weak, dad."

"I know, son," his father replied. "And I'm through sitting here; I found what I was waiting for." He waved, and Sweet Revenge waved back with dry wrists and shirtsleeves as clean as the day he'd got them, and his father walked away.

He realized his tagalong wasn't with him anymore, and started to glance around for him. He was on the point of calling his name when he felt, inexplicably, okay. He no longer felt alone.

He boarded the bus, and before he sat in what was left of a seat, he told Johan, "One thing you should know: Leonard was never my real name. I'm Cameron. It's nice to meet you."


	31. Epilogue Part 4

Kobra Kid spent several minutes blinking like someone was shining a bright light into his eyes. He did that at first to get the sand out, wincing from the abrasions on his face but refusing to complain, because that was an easy thing to trade for not getting horribly maimed by an angry mob.

Then he blinked in confusion at what the hell Jet Star had just done.

He hadn't been able to see much of it, surrounded by Dracs, pinned to the ground with dust in his eyes, and the- what? Whirlwind? Sandstorm?- hadn't helped matters much. He had heard the conversation, of course, but hadn't really believed that Jet had some grand plan to put into place. He'd thought maybe Jet was just stalling for time until Kobra could claw out from under the people holding him and distract them enough for everyone to escape.

He had apparently underestimated his friend's planning skills, and his ability to conjure vast windstorms from thin air using only his guitar.

He was all for the power of music, since the concert had made him feel much better and no longer terrified of going onstage- well, okay, maybe just a little less- but that had been pushing it. Not that he was complaining, just amazed that Jet had somehow managed to create a weird tornado and control it in almost the way Kobra controlled his "anti-building projects" as he had taken to calling his fires (which he would later realize he no longer needed to help control his anger, and give up).

He and Angel had helped each other up, neither of them bruised and bleeding as they should've been, and asked Jet what had happened to the Dracs, because the land around them was entirely empty aside from the concert hall behind them. Jet had said that he hadn't harmed them in the slightest, which Kobra was not exactly happy with but was determined not to dwell on, and he'd sent them away to someplace where they wouldn't hunt anyone anymore, and where they could maybe find a way to get along. He'd sent them to the one place where, according to him, "it's impossible to be angry or hate anyone."

They'd gone to the afterlife's version of Water World.

Kobra followed in Jet Star's wake as he meandered along the side of the road leading away from the city, picking idle tunes on his guitar. He looked surprisingly happy for someone who had, in under an hour, received massive amounts of depression and almost been brutally assaulted. Kobra didn't feel much worse, but he figured it was just adrenaline.

And of course there was Adrenaline Angel, walking alongside him, peppy as always. She was going on about how awesome that fight had been, even thought they had nearly lost badly and she had been punched a lot. Kobra could tell, though, that she was in a weird mood: she laughed a little too often even for her, and while she walked close enough that they could've been holding hands, she exercised the utmost care not to touch him.

To try and ease this uncomfortable tension that had settled on them, Kobra said teasingly, "Wow, Angel, that was a genius move, charging at them after they had me held down. I would've thought that after you died that way, you'd think twice about trying it again." The topic of how they had died was not nearly as awkward for them as it was to living people; here it was kinda like asking someone where they were born, and they'd often talked about each of their deaths.

Angel glanced sideways at him, and he knew something was up, because she blushed and fixed her eyes again on Jet's back. He'd never seen her blush, not in the five years they'd been friends.

"That's…not what happened," she muttered.

"What?"

She closed her eyes and made a face that he recognized because he'd done it often enough himself: the face of a person who's been asked an awkward question they don't want to answer.

"Uh…Yeah. I didn't, exactly, tell you how I died, or at least, um, not the whole thing," She bit her lip. "I wasn't just being stupid…though it was flattering how quickly you accepted that version, Kobra," she added with another sidelong glance, more of a glare this time, that made her look like her old self for a second.

"I don't think you're stupid," he assured her. "But we all make mistakes. What'd you do?"

She slipped back into awkwardness. "I…I might've, um…" she trailed off, tried again. "Okay, you know the Scarecrow attack I told you about?"

"Yeah?" He remembered how they'd discussed the whole thing in great detail, because he'd obviously wanted to know what had happened to the rest of the Killjoys while he was gone. Now he wondered what parts to believe; what was true and what was half-invented? Kobra had never known Angel to lie outright, either, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

She frowned more deeply, as though bracing herself for a cold shock, or warning him to brace himself. "I had to get rid of them. It wasn't that the others fought them off."

"But they're not dead. We'd know."

"Right, and as far as I know none of them _are_ dead. Fun Ghoul was messed up, but we'd have heard from him by now if he was here."

"So what happened with the Scarecrow, then?" Kobra asked.

He thought at first that Angel hadn't heard him, or was avoiding the question, because she went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I'd never met Fun Ghoul before then, as I've said, but he had a reputation for being a bit of a weapons nut. He was supposed to carry grenades up his sleeves and be able to put bombs together in like ten seconds."

Kobra was surprised when he felt sad at the mention of his still-living friend, like he was grieving for him, only backward. "That sounds like him, all right."

"Well, he had this bomb, and we couldn't leave it there 'cause the Scarecrow would get it, and you know their hatred for the Killjoys doesn't extend to perfectly good explosives. So I took it, and I figured the only way out of the jam we were in was to blow up the Scarecrow. But the bomb was too heavy to throw accurately, and besides, they'd probably throw it back. So…"

He stared at her in dread of what she was about to confirm. "Please tell me you didn't…"

She gave another unnatural laugh, this time mixed with bitterness. "What else was there to do? We couldn't lose another of the Fabulous Killjoys, or there wouldn't be enough to lead the rebels, give them hope. They didn't need me.

"And anyway, it was okay in the end, 'cause…" She swallowed. "I get to be with you."

He wasn't fooled by the offhand way she said the last part. That was the only true reason she'd done it; she'd come up with the others later, maybe even as she spoke. He knew by the way she looked at him: it was the same way his wife had looked at him on their wedding day.

He wondered how long Adrenaline Angel had been in love with him.

This was going to be bad enough without other people listening in; he called ahead to Jet Star that he and Angel needed to talk for a minute. Jet nodded sympathetically, like he already knew what they were talking about and wished him the best for it, then went and sat on a conveniently placed bench by the roadside, still immersed in his music.

Kobra and Angel crossed a few dunes, keeping the road in sight, and finally he couldn't take the silence any longer. Holding up his left hand to show off the gold band, he said, "I'm married, Angel."

"I know," she whispered, shaking her head pathetically. "I know. And I know it'll never work for us Kobra, and that's why I didn't tell you, but…"

"How long have you felt this way?" he asked, and he was irritated, in spite of his pity and embarrassment, that his afterlife seemed to have become a really crappy soap opera.

She scrunched up her face in thought. "Well, I've always liked you as a friend, of course, but I think it was only after you died that I realized I felt anything more."

"Maybe you were just missing me?" he suggested, though he could tell that he was wrong before she responded.

"No," she said quietly, taking a step towards him and reaching up to gently and carefully pull off his sunglasses.

He could've jerked away, or snatched them back, but Angel was still one of the few people that he trusted and he didn't want to hurt her more than he had to already. She was still looking at him with the same loving expression, and he tried to think of something to say to make her feel better. But all that came out was, "Angel, I think you should go."

She flinched slightly as she took in his words, but could not deny that he was right. It would be much worse for her if she had to see him every day, and it would make everything more bearable in the long run if they parted on good terms now rather than having a fight later. He hoped she could tell that he was still her friend, that he was trying to do what was best, but he could not be sure she got the message.

"Angel, I'm sorry," he began, but she shoved his sunglasses back at him, having seen in his eyes that he wasn't lying and really wanted her gone.

She shook her head, said, "See ya, Kobra," and stretched up to give him a brief kiss. Before he could react, she turned and ran off into the darkening desert.

He missed her before she was out of sight, and he hoped that someday soon she'd get over her infatuation and come back, and they could be friends again.

Kobra went back to the bench where they'd left Jet, only to find him kneeling, pleading, with the driver of- was that the old Bus? Damn, they'd done a number on it!

The driver pulled Jet to his feet, and seemed to be waving off his profuse apologies. "It's okay," Kobra heard him say. "No, really, I mean it. We're fine."

Kobra rolled his eyes and went to go see what was up, and what Jet was sorry for now.

Cameron had felt like he was ready for anything his afterlife could throw at him, but he was still caught off-guard when the people he had befriended and betrayed, and often both at once, got on the bus and sat by him.

He introduced himself with his true name, and was shocked at how well they took seeing him again, especially Jet Star, who positively beamed when he learned that his old acquaintance had had another name all along. Cam worried whether they'd pick up on these themes of half-truth and hidden identity and piece together his traitorism, but as they were not the suspicious types (not even Kobra, anymore, apparently) and they hadn't heard so much as a whisper of his old lives, they guessed nothing.

They talked for a while about a concert that the two had just held, and when they recounted how "super-shiny-awesome" it had been, Cam almost died again because he had missed it. True, it had been a lifetime ago that he'd been an MCR fan, but clearly that had not died out when he had. Jet noticed his pained expression and suggested that they have a concert of their own, just the three of them. Johan heard that and pulled the bus over to let them off at a flat place between some dunes, not too close to the city that they'd be bothered by anyone.

Kobra suggested that they start a fire to ward off the cold, and then chuckled at his idea and added, "And then we can all sit around it and sing Kumbayah." They set to the task at once, and soon had a roaring fire going.

Jet recalled Cam's fondness for "Helena" and decided that it should be the first on their unofficial setlist, but they'd barely gotten to the first word when Cam stopped them. He couldn't take it, sitting here with these double-crossed, should-be friends of his who were so blissfully ignorant of how he'd betrayed them.

He figured he ought to start with something small; it wouldn't make sense to just launch into his life's story with no introduction, so he said, "You know why I always liked that song?"

"Why?" Kobra asked. "Sentiment?"

"Yeah," Cam said with a nostalgic smile. "The best day I ever had was when I was one of the pallbearers in that music video."

They stared at him in astonishment; Cam was likewise shocked that they had never recognized him. "I thought you looked familiar!" Jet exclaimed.

"You've known him five years, Jet; I should hope he looks familiar," Kobra teased.

Jet gave a brief grin at that, but persisted. "Why did you never tell us that we'd met you before?"

Cam had often wondered that himself, but he'd found the reason in the end. "I wanted you to accept me as the person I'd become, not the kid I was when we first met. And I didn't want you to judge me based on my crappy first impression," he joked. "Besides," he added, with a sigh at the dark turn the conversation had to take from this point on, "while that was the best day of my life, it was surrounded by some of the worst."

Naturally, they asked what had gone so wrong for him that getting to be in a funeral procession was a highlight. But he had a concern of his own before embarking on the awful tale: the oppressive sense of guilt he still carried.

"I-I have to tell you something," he confessed and felt dread build up in his stomach, the words rushing out of him as though eager to evade the inevitable backlash. He still recalled Kobra's barely-restrained attack attempt and how the Killjoy had struck trepidation into Cam with more strength than if he'd actually hit him.

"What is it?" Jet asked quietly, sensing Cam's abrupt fear.

"It was my fault, all of it!" he said, his voice rising to near-hysteria, not just from fright, but the impossible idea that he'd soon explain everything he'd sworn to keep from everyone, sometimes including himself. His voice dropped to a whisper as he admitted, "I'm the reason you're dead."

"You didn't kill us," Kobra replied instantly. "We just had a fight with the bastard that got Jet, and Korse did me in. Don't blame yourself." He exchanged a mildly amused glance with Jet.

Cam hated to risk elaborating, but at this point he had no choice- if he didn't do it now, he never would. He'd forced worse out of himself, anyway.

"No, I didn't pull the trigger, but I turned you in. I told Korse where to find you."

Never mind that he hadn't wanted to get involved to begin with, had cried alone in his gas station after Korse had dragged the information out of him. He had no space for excuses now.

Kobra stood, took a step toward him as he had feared; he closed his eyes to brace for the blow that never came. Instead, he heard the last thing he expected: not a furious yell or a harsh threat, but the soft strains of "Freefallin'" by Tom Petty.

He chanced a peek at the Killjoys and saw that Jet Star had caught Kobra by the hand, holding him back while, eyes closed, he mind-sung to calm him down. Kobra did not resist, but sighed and said coldly to Cameron, "How long have you been on their side?"

"Always," Cam was whispering again; he could hardly bear the sound of his own voice.

"And what did you help them with?" He struggled to keep the rage out of his face.

"I passed them information: everything I knew about you from my days as a fan, everything you told me about yourselves, they knew it too." It seemed important to add what he'd said about Kobra. "One of the first things I told them was that you were bipolar. I learned that when I was sixteen, and it's been one of the things I most liked about you."

"Fun Ghoul told me you didn't know that," Kobra countered distantly, sinking down beside Jet with a dazed expression.

"Those things I said about being weak and having addictions," Cam continued, his voice gaining strength and volume as his confessions gained direction, "those were meant to provoke you. I'm so sorry, but I had to get you out of the way for the plan to work. I wanted Fun Ghoul out, too, but no such luck. So I figured I had one chance, and I sent out a homing signal to a nearby Drac patrol, who were waiting for it, showed up, and attacked. I had hoped that they would try to kidnap you all, want you alive to present to Korse, but they tried to kill you. Of course, I should've known you hadn't gone far and they were no match for you. I was glad when you beat them."

Jet and Kobra seemed to be at a loss for words, staring slack-jawed at him, taking in the outlandish realities he revealed to them.

Finally Jet asked, "But why'd you do this at all, Cam? You told us that you were a huge fan, that we'd saved your life."

"Or was that a lie too?" Kobra interjected. "And what's your deal with my bipolar disorder? Why do you like it? I can assure you I don't."

Cam felt the guilt well up in him, magnified by the truth Jet had spoken. He could never have an excuse for any of this, but he tried to explain as best he could. "It's true. I was- still am, actually- a fan, and you did save me. But I…" he broke off, not sure where to go from here; they seemed to have started in the middle of the story when they should take it from the top. "It started with my mother, and her mood disorder."

He told them of his childhood, growing up with a mother suffering from what he had later learned to be severe depression and a father who despised the idea of her getting treated for it. "It wasn't that he didn't love her, though they drifted apart eventually. He hated the thought of anyone being dependent on anything and didn't want her to be what he considered weak."

They saw the connection, he could tell, and he quickly confirmed it. "Yes, that was what I was ranting about. I only realized later that I sounded just like my father, even as I wallowed in the hypocrisy of hating dependency while working for BLI. The worst part was that I meant what I said.

"I was trying to make you mad, sure, but I also wanted to be mad at you. I wanted to be able to face you, and myself, when I turned you in. That backfired, obviously, so I ended up just ratting you out to Korse instead and letting him take over."

He elaborated on how he'd grown up, and how after his mother had hung herself from a curtain rod and he'd found the body (he'd almost broken down at this point, but Jet went over and put an arm around him until he felt better), his father had become unbearable. They never went more than a week without fighting, and the arguments would usually end with Cam curled up in his room, alone, fighting back sobs.

The situation had only worsened when Cam had realized that he was like his mother. He researched her condition and found out that he was showing the same symptoms: the crying jags; the fits of lethargy; the feeling that life was just a slow, plodding walk down a painful road to death. He was depressed too, but God forbid his father find out!

The strain of keeping his pain a secret finally got to him one night, when he and his father had a screaming match that was far worse than usual (it had been about his mother and whether she had meant to abandon them, which was insulting her memory and made Cam angry just to think about). Cam yelled his father out of his room and slammed the door before curling up in a corner, feeling like his life had hit a new low, and he couldn't bear to have to face his dad in the morning.

He'd thought that dying was his best option, and he'd taken a razor from his bathroom in the dead of night and cut open his wrists. But the slashes weren't deep enough to kill him, and so when his father had shown up a half hour later to give the same empty apology as always, it was to find Cam lying on the floor in his own blood.

He woke up in the hospital and was greeted with a speck of hope: maybe his father would realize how important Cam was to him and really mean it when he said sorry, and they'd get along better and it would all be something resembling okay…

Fat chance. His father's first words to him upon his return to consciousness were "How could you be so stupid?" On the doctors' advice he tried to avoid stressing Cam out when he needed to rest, but Cam could feel the bitter disapproval in his father's glance and he knew nothing was going to change. In fact, judging by the way his father had grown to almost hate his mother's memory, Cam suspected things were going to get much worse.

He did not intend to be there when they did.

"I wanted to try and kill myself again," he explained, and it was strangely good to have his listeners react to this with not pitying sighs but empathetic smiles. They got it; they got _him_. "But then I found you guys." And with them, he'd found another way out.

His first MCR song had been "Helena," which he had discovered while surfing the Internet for the best suicide methods (Kobra gave a dark chuckle when he said, "Did you know there's a whole section of Youtube for that?") The lyrics were perfect for his relationship with his parents, and just like that, he became a fan. Over time, he also grew out of his suicidal notions, because MCR was proof that there were other people who dealt with this kind of thing and _he didn't have to go it alone_.

His next goal was to show his favorite band his gratitude, and what better way to do that than to be in the music video for his favorite song? His father had agreed to let him stay in California alone because he couldn't take time out of his job to go with him. Their awkward goodbye at the airport would be the last contact they would have in this life.

"I took my life's savings with me, and some of his too," Cam admitted. "I stole it from his hiding place behind the bookcase when he was out. I think that was what really signified how serious I was about leaving. When I didn't show up back at the airport he tried to call me, but I didn't answer, and he probably thought I'd missed my flight and was just being obstinate by not telling him.

"But I was way beyond that. I bought my own apartment in Los Angeles, changed my name to Leonard so Dad couldn't find me, and gotten a job at an upstart company called Better Living Industries." He noticed Jet and Kobra's frowns and said, "I didn't know at the time what they would grow to be. I just knew that the job came with health insurance and they advocated my treatment.

"I was happy, for the first time in my life." Cam had almost lost track of where he was, gazing not into the crackling fire but his memories.

Jet prompted, "And you just stayed on after the war?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I know it sounds heartless, but the war was good for BLI- good for business, with all the people flocking to the little fortress, Battery City. Nobody called it L.A. anymore, not after BLI took over.

"I went along with it, got promoted even. I was assigned to work in what I was told was a prison for rebels, people trying to destabilize the government. And then one day, we were told a group of high-priority threats had been captured- "

Kobra cracked his knuckles, the sharp sound breaking into Cam's thoughts. He looked up, thinking that Kobra would finally go for him (Jet had finished that Tom Petty song ages ago and had stopped holding him back), but he remained sitting, glaring at the ground.

Cam went on, not entirely comforted. "I was shocked when I realized it was you guys. I didn't want to have anything to do with anyone who considered you, of all people, a threat."

"You should've busted us out, then!" Kobra snapped.

_Should have, should have…_How many times had he told himself the exact same thing? "I know. But I didn't know what would've happened after that. There was no Killjoy rebellion then, so I couldn't be sure that you wouldn't just get recaptured and have worse done to you…" He grew tired of such excuses, no matter how true they were, and said, "I was just scared. I didn't want to be in danger too; I knew they'd kill me or torture me or something if I helped you.

"But I did try to get them off your back," he said to Kobra. "I told them how dangerous and violent you were, how they should be afraid of you."

Kobra stared at him in dawning comprehension, all traces of anger gone. "Then…that's why they didn't attack me for so long!"

Cam nodded. Turning to Jet Star, he added, "I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more help to the rest of you, but they didn't believe me about the rest of you- especially you. They said you were too polite to be that evil."

Kobra snorted.

"They believed me after you broke out, though. Then they trusted whatever I said."

"You did help us, though," Jet replied. "I remember a man who came to our cell and sung us to sleep at night- that was you, wasn't it?"

Cam remembered it differently: he'd spent those nights sleepless, berating himself for his weakness and sympathy for the people who were supposed to be his enemies. Now he just smiled. "I did what I could."

"It was 'Sleep,' wasn't it?" Kobra asked, looking as though he'd just learned the meaning of life. Cam knew there was no chance of Kobra going for him now, and he confirmed that by saying, with a trademark smirk, "You do have good taste in music."

Cam went on, "I also let Show Pony in, when he came to break you out. I was on door-guard duty and I didn't ask why he was there; I could see that he had a gun and I just didn't bother to stop him. He got half of you out before the general alarm went up."

"You got us out alive." The gratitude in Jet's voice was more than Cam deserved, when all he had done was open a door.

"No, I let in someone who could help more than I could."

He carried on with the story, this time explaining how he'd become a spy and fixed up the old gas station, using supplies from BLI. He'd had to get a Killjoy name, and had chosen the title of his favorite album, trying to distract himself with his somehow-surviving admiration rather than focus on his betrayal of the band that had saved him once. It didn't work.

He had spent the years of their acquaintance torn with indecision, trying to figure out whether to stay loyal to the people that had given him a job and treatment or those that had given him a reason to get away in the first place.

He had finally cracked and agreed help Korse and the other Exterminators set up a trap at the gas station. There, Leonard or Sweet Revenge or whatever-his-name-was had the first priority of getting Kobra Kid out of the way: apparently his hyperbolic descriptions of Kobra as ruthless and deadly had come true.

"I was terrified the week leading up to it," Cam confessed, his hands still shaking at the memory. "I asked for some extra meds, even. But we all know how well that attack went." He tried, and failed, to laugh at his own stupid joke. "I hated myself the whole time, too. When I was ranting, I was really just trying to keep myself from drowning in hypocrisy and to try to get my allegiance straight. But that didn't work either, because of you, Kobra.

"It's not that I _like_ your disorder," he explained. "In fact, at that time, I hated you for dealing with it so well, better than I'd ever handled any of my problems. I couldn't have that if I was working for the other side now, so I told you all the hateful things I couldn't say to myself. When I thought they were going to kill you, though, I realized how much that would hurt me, too: you were the closest thing I had to a good role model.

"After all the Dracs were dead, though, I had to have a way to really apologize, or at least, as much as I could without giving up my position as either your friend or the most famous, successful spy at the company." He chuckled darkly. "See the bind I was in? I did try and help you out, though: that lithium I gave you was my extra."

Kobra was too surprised by all of this to do more than mutter, "Thanks."

Cam talked on into the night, telling them of what had happened after they died. He told them about the party and their friends' revenge (this seemed to mean a lot to Jet, who said, "Oh, so that was the Outpost 9 thingy!" and Kobra added, "They didn't take revenge very well. Neither did we, really," and Cam sensed another story to be told). He explained about his interrogations, how he had filmed Party Poison and Hot Chimp and shown that as evidence of his loyalty.

"Though really," Cam said with a sardonic smile, "my boss should've realized that it was evidence of my traitorism that I didn't try and kill them right then."

For he had become a traitor by then, even as he finally gave up the location of the diner and led a Scarecrow strike team in an assault. Kobra suddenly chimed in with details of how the attack was thwarted by a Killjoy called Adrenaline Angel; she was the one who had blown herself up in their midst.

"She told me later," Kobra said, shrugging, as Cam stared at him in amazement.

The story wound on: Leonard had suffered a recurrence of morals and had tried to shoot himself to avenge what he thought was Fun Ghoul's death (it later turned out that he was just fine, thanks to Hot Chimp, who had also turned against BLI), only to be "saved" by Korse. He told them about the duel, and how he had finally gotten fed up with Korse's superiority and decided to try and avenge them.

"And that's how I ended up here," he said, but was not finished.

Cam couldn't help but wonder whether the Killjoys minded that he'd taken over the conversation as he droned on for another quarter of an hour about his meeting with his young self, but they both fixed him with expressions of absolute fascination, and so he continued.

He told them about how he'd rediscovered the pain of his mother's death that he had repressed for so long, his meeting with his father, and ended with how he'd known that he couldn't be Sweet Revenge any longer.

"I mean, it was a shiny name," he said, and this attempt at a joke was easier to smile at. "But it wasn't me, you know what I mean? I was too torn between you guys and BLI to know who the hell I was after a while. I knew when I stood up to Korse that I definitely wasn't Leonard anymore, but it took me much longer to learn that I couldn't be a fake Killjoy either. I had to find out who I had been before all this, back when I could be an MCR fan and go to a concert without having to worry about whether I'd have to shoot you in the morning.

"And I ended up as Cameron," he concluded, feeling worn-out at this rambling tale but, finally, guilt-free.

"I can relate," Jet said after a moment of silence. He held his arm out for them to see, displaying his jacket sleeve. "The bloodstains are gone; they cleared up when I talked to Johan on the Bus and he said that they were doing just fine and didn't blame us for what we'd had to do to them. I finally feel okay again; I feel like me."

Cam was reminded of his own bloody ordeals and glanced down at the healed wounds on his wrists.

He realized what it was that he'd been missing in his misguided attempts at finding himself, saw what he could've had ages ago in the utmost contentment and certainty on the man's face as Jet concluded, "So I'm changing my name back. From now on you can call me Ray."

"By the way," Kobra broke in suddenly, turning to the re-named Ray with a dark glare. "I don't need you to tell me when to calm down; I'm getting pretty good at containing myself, if you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed," Ray assured him, with the shadow of a smile on his face in spite of the situation: making Kobra mad was worse than staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. "I think you've changed, too."

But there was a crack in Kobra's angry exterior: a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth as he said, "Maybe, but if I have to hear you sing about how you're 'freefallin'' one more time, you will be because I'll throw you through a plate-glass window."

Ray doubled over laughing; Kobra flashed him an affectionate grin. Cam was still reeling from the mood swings of the conversation, but eventually figured that it was okay if he chuckled too. After all, there was nothing like a good in-joke between true friends.

When the three of them had finished laughing, Ray asked Kobra, "So what was the deal with Angel?" and as Cam had no clue who that was, aside from her name and her clear friendship with Kobra, or what the deal was, he settled down for his turn to listen to a story.

Well, that had sucked, to say the least.

Adrenaline Angel didn't know what she'd been hoping would happen- she knew he was married and wasn't interested in her like that- but maybe she'd heard too many sappy love songs or something, because she'd thought that maybe they could make it work.

She'd willed herself not to cry as he told her the harsh truth, even though his voice was gentler than when he spoke to anyone else, and that attempt at comforting her made it all so much harder. She was crying now, though, tears making trails through the dust on her face. While they were sweetened like her favorite lemon tea, she thought bitterly that they would never be as sweet as he had been.

Angel choked back a sob, and quickly thought about it in a different way.

As she stalked off across the desert, she realized that she had seen this coming all along. She was being totally stupid about it, expecting him to run off with her, or whatever it was she'd been wishing; she wasn't sure now. Anyway, that was delusional, and she was wasting her time on this crush. She was supposed to be too old to get crushes!

Angel was glad that Kobra hadn't seen her cry, because she respected him too much for him to know how silly she was being.

She arrived at her store, hung up Featherweight, and slumped into a beanbag chair, exhausted and angry at herself. She fully intended to sit there and cry for a while and get some good moping done, but her mind wandered back to her friend, and music.

She remembered how Kobra had said (had it been a joke?) that she must play country, because she was Southern. It wasn't her fault she was born in Texas and had hated the place from the age of four! She'd always thought the typical country music sucked, with all the twangy banjos and whatnot, especially the cheesy breakup songs. Angel snickered through a running nose when she tried to imagine what kind of song would suit this occasion, and came up with: "_I thought I had a boyfriend, but he left me outta luck/Told myself he loved me, but he didn't give a fuck/So now I hafta hit with my daddy's pickup truck…"_

Before she reached the chorus, Angel was giggling too hard to think or to brood. And at least Kobra did care about her, and she knew he was always her friend

She was also glad that she didn't have to actually hit him with a truck, because that would be another really awkward conversation.

Feeling considerably better, Angel tried to think of what to do next. She had been so absorbed in planning for the concert, and now that it was over she felt kinda lost.

Well, who said it had to be over? Angel jumped up again as inspiration obligingly hit her over the head. It had never occurred to her that must be other musicians here; she'd met that girl Mackenzie at the concert, and she was just one of who knew how many people who were really talented and itching to perform.

Angel went to her totally shiny new laptop computer and created a poster to put on the door of the shop. It said that anyone who needed a guitarist for their band should talk to her, and went on for a bit about her favorite styles of music, and had a picture of Van Halen shredding, which was obviously the best part. No, the best part was that she could actually shred like Van Halen.

She figured that if she was going to be in a lot of bands pretty soon, she'd better practice like a nutcase, so she picked up Featherweight and set to work.

Halfway through trying to remember a scale she got distracted and started writing a song for herself- not an overly angsty one, though it was full of her issues and fears, yes, but it was also honest, heartfelt, and most of all had a little bit of hope- a desert song.

For a fall from power and grace, it wasn't too bad.

He'd thrown away his old medals and his old name with them, and taken on his older name, Grant. He was not sorry about the nonexistence of BLI; it gave him a chance to think about what was really important to him. He focused on the ideas that he'd always considered his own private heresy: the thoughts that had come to him in the middle of the night, just before he fell asleep; the idea that the Killjoys were oppressed artists and nothing more; that he couldn't really claim to be better than them because if the situation were reversed, he'd fight the same war; and the most worrisome of all, how he knew their leader had once been a comic book artist himself and if things had gone a tiny bit differently, they could've been friends.

He had hated himself for these thoughts, tried desperately to ignore them, and now he could consider them freely, even believe that he was right. He took up a job as a comic book artist again, happy to be doing something familiar. He felt much better for it: his blood pressure had gone down (not that it mattered here, but it was nice all the same) and he mellowed out considerably.

The only people that didn't notice the change in him were the ex-Dracs and the Killjoys. He would often have his former subordinates come up to him in the street and greet him with news on the war, and he would tell them that it didn't matter, that he didn't care anymore who won (though he secretly rooted for the Killjoys), and he told anyone who asked him about BLI to go find something else to do with their lives, because that was over.

The Killjoys had still hated him at first. They would yell things at him, demand to know what he'd done to their friends or cousins or brothers- forcing him to admit that he didn't know the fate of every Killjoy he'd ever led a raid on and even the ones he hadn't, but he had figured out long ago that you could always find someone you were looking for here- sometimes even attack him. His ribs still ached from his recent encounter with some crazy Southern punk rocker who had punched him in the stomach on behalf of her friend Kobra Kid. On the whole, though, things had calmed down between him and the Killjoys: once they'd realized he had no plans to reinstate BLI or anything like it. He'd even formed some timid friendships with a few of them, when they agreed to let him use them and their life stories for his work.

It was ironic that his favorite place to hang out and sketch was at the old diner, which he'd since learned was the place where the Fabulous Killjoys had eluded him for so long. It was just a memory replica, true, but it was really a very nice one.

"Thanks," he said, glancing up from his notepad as Mara, the waitress and an excellent cook, set down another cup of hot coffee.

She wasn't listening, her eyes focused instead on the window. He looked too, and for all his hard-won peace with the Killjoys and professed distance from BLI, felt a tingle of fear as he saw three of his worst enemies: Jet Star, Kobra Kid, and that traitor Leonard.

They came in and sat down in the next booth over, and apparently Mara knew them too, because Kobra started to apologize for something to do with her nose, and she laughed it off with a joke about how it looked better now, and maybe he should go into rhinoplasty.

Grant understood none of this, but waited for the blow to fall.

And, right on cue, Jet Star turned around in his booth and faced Grant and said, "Well, look who finally showed up!"

Kobra and Leonard stopped laughing over their coffee and froze, staring at him in disbelief.

Jet continued, "I never thought we'd see you here." He didn't sound angry, though, or like he was taunting Grant, but simply welcoming, as if Grant had finally found his way to Jet's house for a party after losing the directions.

"I…ended up dying in the end," Grant told him. There was really no need to explain what everyone could clearly see, but it was easier than talking about why he had died in front of one of the people who had helped kill him. "Listen, you should know that I'm not like I was; I've reformed. I don't hate Killjoys anymore- in fact, I never really did, it was just part of my job- and I have no affiliation with BLI in any capacity."

He had more to explain, but Kobra spoke up and said, "Oh, we know. Ray has this weird, like, sixth sense for people who've changed. That's why I haven't knocked out all your teeth yet."

"Oh," Grant didn't know what to say to that. "You don't have to do that, you know. You've been avenged again: I got punched by your friend- Angel, was it?"

Kobra chuckled. "I wouldn't hit you anyway. You're too nice for that now. Besides, I don't need more stress; it's not good for me."

Grant smiled at him, not in superiority as he had when he'd shot him, but in actual kindness. Then a question occurred to him. "Wait, who's Ray?"

"Oh," said Jet Star, with a slightly awkward grin. "I guess we forgot to tell you. I changed my name back to what it was before all this happened. I'm Ray." He reached over the top of the booth to shake hands.

"Grant." He took a second to note just how reformed he was, shaking hands with a sworn enemy, and then Leonard said his first words in the whole conversation:

"I'm Cameron now, and I'm sorry you had to die, sir, but I don't regret what I had to do." Despite the sureness of the words, he looked petrified to be saying them, shrinking back in the booth as though afraid Grant would tackle him.

He looked at his old subordinate, his right-hand-man turned traitor, and realized that he hadn't regretted killing him, either. He had no grudge against him now, though: he had done what needed to be done when he was Korse, and now he could be someone else, live another life, and give Cameron a chance to do the same. It seemed ages ago that they had faced each other on that dusty battlefield, and he was willing to forgive and forget.

He explained this, and Cam sighed in relief and shook his hand.

Kobra asked abruptly if it was rude to wear his sunglasses inside, and answered his own question by taking them off. They weren't really sunglasses, though: they were practically clear, but he took them off anyway.

When the group walked out much later, he would leave them behind and act like he hadn't heard when Mara tried to tell him he'd forgotten them.

Grant was growing to accept these peaceful Killjoys, but was still a little (only somewhat jokingly) shocked to see that Kobra Kid's eyes were human- he'd been expecting some sort of cyborg, or maybe a demon-snake. But anything could happen now that they were dead: he could be friends with his greatest enemies, even!

"I'm Mikey, by the way," the man said, and Ray jumped up and tried to hug him across the table, which didn't work very well because he nearly knocked over their coffee.

Grant moved his stuff over to their table, and they talked for a long time together about what they'd all been through in the afterlife, how they'd ended up here, and what they were going to do now.

Grant's plans were not nearly as ambitious as the others' as he just wanted to work on some more art. They had a growing list of people they had to find that included Ray and Mikey's wives; the spouses and children of the other, living Killjoys; their old Killjoy buddy Cherri Cola; and Mikey's grandmother (Cam seemed eager to find her too, and he explained to Grant that he would finally get to meet the person for whom he'd "helped hold a metaphorical funeral.")

When Grant said that he could tell them how to find all of those people, they practically killed him again in their excitement. He waited for them to calm down and elaborated: the same force that allowed everyone to create buildings with their minds could also be used to locate people.

Mikey chuckled. "Well, I feel stupid for not thinking of that."

"That should make things much easier," Ray added. "Especially since I think the people on the Bus will be glad to help us out."

Grant tentatively asked if he could accompany them on their journey, because he was running out of stories and he figured theirs was the only one the people from the "Killjoy generation" would be interested in anyway. They agreed.

And so Grant reclined in the Killjoys' diner with his new friends Cam, Ray, and Mikey, and felt that being dead wasn't so bad, after all- especially not when the coffee was this good.


End file.
